


Love on the Quidditch Pitch

by TessFawcett (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Heidelberg Harriers, Holyhead Harpies, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-07-02
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 74,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TessFawcett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written a long time ago on fanfiction.net. It was orphaned 7 years ago in a cold corner of the internet, and the fanfiction.net, Fiction Ally, and Schnoogle accounts are gone.  
> I bring it here to the archive so that it may be orphaned among more caring readers. That it might, even in it's partial state, endure.  
> Because it is the greatest fic that I have ever read. And it should be somewhere more accessible than a yahoo group (angstybludgers) where it can currently be found.  
> Read it and love it.

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch

**Author Name:**  Tess

**Author email:**  tessfawcett@yahoo.com

**Category:**  Humor/Romance

**Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

**Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

**Rating:**  PG

**Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

**Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:**  This story describes a game outlined in Kennilworthy Whisp's  _Quidditch through the Ages_. I read the synopsis and decided the story of the 1953 match needed telling, despite the fact that everyone already knows the ending. I hope you all agree.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER ONE: THE GAME BEGINS**

"Welcome to the Heidelberg Harriers versus our very own Holyhead Harpies! I'm Idris Baulch, and I'll be announcing the game today. I think it's about time for us to get started--Yes, I said,  _I think it's about time to get started_..." Idris glared helplessly out at the crowd. Harpy Captain Gwendolyn Morgan was sitting on the sidelines scribbling something on a chalkboard. One of the Chasers was standing nearby, twirling her hair around her finger and pretending not to notice the admiration of a group of lads up from Cardiff to watch the game. Another was--oh, Lord...

"Goddammit, Mrs. Williams, put the child away!" Idris bellowed.

Everyone turned to stare at Blodwen Williams, who frowned up at the announcer's booth, her infant offspring still clamped to her breast, and shouted, "He's hungry!"

"I don't care, catch the bloody Snitch and feed him afterwards!" Idris howled. The crowd roared its approval. Half the attraction of a Harpies game was Idris Baulch in the announcer's booth, going slowly insane as the game progressed.

"I'm not the Seeker, you moron!" Blodwen shouted back.

"Oh, for Pete's--Miss Morgan," he called to the captain, "might we begin?"

She ignored him and continued writing on her chalkboard.

"Miss Morgan, if you haven't got a strategy by  _now_ , then this will be the shortest game in league history!"

"Mari," the captain said to one of the Beaters, without looking up, "go and hit him over the head a few times with your club, will you?"

"Right," Mari said, and strode off looking determined. The referee, much to the crowd's disappointment, blew his whistle before she reached the booth. Both teams stopped wandering around and came to stand on the sidelines, looking attentive. Gwendolyn Morgan, Keeper and Captain, was the last to arrive, putting her chalkboard down before walking over. A dark-haired young woman in her early twenties, she looked both distracted and determined. She had pinned her hair up for the game, as had most of her team, except the ever-flirtatious Angharad Rees, Chaser, whose blond tresses were in a ponytail, and Mari Lello, Beater, whose dark hair barely reached her chin and was therefore not pin-uppable.

"Thank you, Miss Morgan, for deigning to join the group. Right," Idris Baulch said, sounding satisfied. "All right. We're ready to begin. First we have the Heidelberg Harriers, all the way from Germany. We have--Brand!" As he shouted each name, the player zoomed out onto the field and the German side of the stands went wild. "Kriebl! Klopsch! Diffen--I can't pronounce it, give me a second."

Diffen-whatever froze, mid-swoop, and waited. The German side of the stands started to look irritated.

"Diffendorf--No. Diffeldorffen--No."

Someone came up behind him and whispered something in his ear.

"Right! Diffenderffer! Einbund! Falck! Aaaaaand--Oh, Lord, another one. I can't--Look, we've got Adelheid von--von--Well, she's here from Germany, to help me announce; why don't you tell them who the Seeker is?"

"I am not here to  _help_ ," Adelheid von Whatever said, glowering. "I am here to  _announce_.  _You_  may help  _me_."

Gwendolyn Morgan and several Harpy team members applauded from the sidelines. "Bravo!" shouted one of the Beaters.

"I am Adelheid von Roethlisberger. Ve haff--Brand! Kriebl! Klopsch! Diffenderffer! Einbund! Falck! Aaaand--Bastnagel! For the Holyhead Harpies, ve haff--"

"Yes, thank you, Addie," Baulch said, grabbing the mike. "Our very own Harpies are--"

"It is Adelheid," Adelheid announced, trying to take the mike away, "not 'Addie.'" The whole thing was, due to the mike war, audible to the crowds. The Welsh, who were used to Idris Baulch's antics, looked amused, the Germans merely confused. "And it is my turn to announce!"

"You just announced the Germans."

"Only after you had, how do you say, screwed it up!"

"Yes, but--"

"I insist--"

"You really can't--"

"It is not--I vill--" Adelheid managed to grab control of the mike. "Morgan!" she screamed, loudly and very, very quickly. "Rees! Jones! Villiams!"

Baulch grabbed the mike. "Do not go-- _do not_  go out there until I call your names!  _I_  call your names! It's  _my_  turn to announce, this is  _illicit announcing_!"

On the sidelines, Beater Enid Davies turned to Beater Mari Lello and sighed. "This is going to be one of those games, isn't it?" she said. "I can tell."

Out on the field, Angharad Rees looked to her captain for guidance. "Should we go back?" she asked.

Gwendolyn Morgan sighed. "No, Angharad," she said. "By no means. Don't listen to a word Baulch says for the rest of the game. Or that German woman. Not one word."

Angharad nodded and smiled flirtatiously at the man opposite her, Harrier Chaser Dietrich Diffenderffer, a bald little man who looked at least fifteen years older than he was. He nearly fell off his broom.

Bronwyn Jones rolled her eyes. So did Blodwen Williams. The standing joke in the League was that, while Beaters were often played by siblings, the Harpies had triplets playing Chasers--all blond-haired, blue-eyed witches, two of whom actually were twins. Bronwyn and Blodwen were still prone to accidentally doing things identically. On the field, Angharad joined with them to form a seamless whole. Off the field, she irritated the hell out of them.

"They're my team!" Baulch was bellowing. "It's my turn to announce--"

"Then vhy did you announce  _my_  team? It is an outrage! I vill not have you--"

Gwen checked the sidelines. Mari Lello and Enid Davies, the two Beaters, were looking bored, while Glynnis Griffiths was taking advantage of the free time to fix her hairpins--her hair was ordinarily so curly that it was impossible to manage. It generally started falling out of the pins after about five hours had gone by, although they had only had one game this past year that had lasted that long. Hopefully this one would be short, so they could all go home.

Gwen returned her attention to the field. She had read up on the Harriers, of course, and sent everything she could find to her team-mates... not that they had appreciated it, of course; they complained that she got "crazy" in the week before a match, but who could blame her? Dammit, they were  _going_  to be the best team in the League this year, at least if _she_  had anything to say about it...

The tall one with the light-brown hair and slightly goofy smile would be Rudolf Brand, thirty-one, Keeper and Captain. A good strong player, but no match for Gwen's three Chasers, as long as at least two of them were free. They had used the Porskoff Ploy so often during practice that Gwen had considered banning it, just to teach them a lesson.

Alberich Bastnagel, the Seeker... the most important player, of course... An unassuming man with pale hair and pale eyes, going slightly bald. He looked meek, mild, and utterly unthreatening. He had recently used the Wronski Feint in a match against the Tutshill Tornados, to great effect: Derek Plumpton, the Seeker, had broken his nose and remained so disoriented that at the end of the game, he had said, "Oh, dear me, Captain, there does appear to be a dragon on your head," and fainted. Admittedly Glynnis disdained "following other Seekers around... I mean, if you can't spot the bloody Snitch yourself, then what are you doing on the field?" but Gwen was keeping her eye on Alberich Bastnagel.

The Chasers: Kriebl, Klopsch, and Diffenderffer. Diffenderffer, a bald little man who looked past forty, despite being not yet thirty, was blushing furiously and trying hard not to look at Angharad, who was twirling her ponytail around her finger and smiling smugly, pleased at having once again reduced something with a Y-chromosome to a quivering pile of jelly. Kriebl and Klopsch were less awkward than Diffenderffer: the one on the left--Kriebl?--was eyeing Angharad appreciatively, while the one on the right was trying to strike up a conversation with a bored-looking Bronwyn Jones in very poor English. Pity he hadn't noticed the engagement ring.

The Beaters, Einbund and Falck, looked like typical Beaters: slabs of men that looked more stone than meat. They were conversing in low voices in German--Gwen tried to remember if she had asked Blodwen Williams, who spoke "a  _little_  German," to notify her if she heard them saying anything interesting, decided that she must have, and stopped worrying about it--and casting occasional incredulous glances at the sidelines, where the Harpy Beaters were patiently waiting for the announcers to finish their bickering.

Mari Lello and Enid Davies were not exactly big. Mari barely stood five feet in her socks. They looked as though a good strong wind would blow them off their broomsticks. They could hit a Bludger harder than any other Beater in the League, too; "I always imagine it's my ex-boyfriend's head," Enid had explained in a mock-ingenious voice. "I suppose that's silly of me, but it's ever so helpful, especially when my arm's getting tired." Then she had laughed. You could never be sure when to take Enid and Mari seriously, not that it mattered.

"You horrible German woman, why don't you go back to Germany--you German?" Baulch screamed.

"Vhy don't  _I_ \--vhy don't  _you_ \--it is  _my_  turn to announce!"

"I've got the megaphone, you stupid idiot!"

"Giff it here, damn you!"

Gwen sighed again. She should have brought her chalkboard with her.

"Gwen!  _Gwen_!"

She looked back at the sidelines. Glynnis Gryffiths had her hands cupped around her mouth. "Gwenny, look at the stands! The  _stands_ , Gwen!"

Someone unrolled a banner on the Harpy side.  _The female of the species is deadlier than the male._

"It's your  _sister_!" Glynnis screamed. "And  _my_  sister! And just about every third-year girl in Gryffindor with them! Hallo, Susan! Hallo, Gwyneth!"

She turned and waved to the stands. Gwen grinned and waved, too. She could see Gwyneth, Susan, and all their friends jumping up and down.

"Are they all yours?" Angharad asked over her shoulder.

"Gwyneth's mine, Susan's Glynnis', and the rest are their own."

"And who are all those boys?" Angharad continued, obviously getting round to the point of the first question, pointing to the front row.

Gwen checked. "Mari's brothers," she said, and turned back to the field.

"All of them?"

"She's got six."

"No, one of them's ours," Bronwyn said. "Blodwen's and mine." She squinted at the stands. "I think."

"You haff brothers?" one of the Beaters--probably Klopsch--said, still trying to make conversation.

"Just one," Bronwyn said, sounding bored again. She was very good at sounding bored. It was one of the main causes of dissent between her and her fiance.

"I have a son," Blodwen volunteered, starting on her favorite topic of conversation. "He's watching the game with his daddy. Hello, Tommy!" She waved. Gwen looked over at Tommy. It was hard to see with the light in her eyes, but she didn't think Tommy, perched rather precariously in his father's lap, was showing any signs of acknowledgment. His mother was probably just a speck at this distance. "He's eleven months old," Blodwen said. "And three weeks and two days. I'll have to feed him during the breaks. We did discuss that, right, Gwen?"

"Yes, Blodwen."

"You haff a baby? And your husband allows you to play Quidditch?"

"I'd like to see him stop her!" Bronwyn said indignantly, forgetting that she was supposed to be bored.

"Her husband's a Chaser for the Caerphilly Catapults," Gwen said.

"And he allows you to play Quidditch?" Brand repeated.

" _He_  plays Quidditch," Blodwen said, in the tones of one explaining something to a very small child. "So do  _I_."

"Oh. You are  _feminists_ , I see."

Gwendolyn Morgan, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, a woman absolutely loaded with tact (as long as all games were more than three weeks away), stared at him in absolute horror. Had he really just  _said_  that? In those tones?

"This is going to be a nasty game, isn't it?" Angharad said, flipping her ponytail and smiling at the Harrier Beaters.

"Yes, Angharad, it does look that way," she said. "At least Mari and Enid couldn't hear him."

"Vat?" Brand said. "Vat did I say?"

"It's people like you," Bronwyn announced to the Harriers, "that make me want to dump my fiance."

"Darren's not here, Bronwyn. What's the point of getting into a fight with him if he doesn't know about it?" Gwendolyn tried.

"Of  _course_  he's not here, he's in Bulgaria. God forbid  _he_  should ever be here to support  _me_ \--"

"All right, all right."

"Who is in Bulgaria?" Rudolf Brand demanded.

"Darren, Bronwyn's fiance."

"Vhy?"

"He's Keeper for the Kenmare Kestrels and they're playing the Vratsa Vultures, is why."

" _He_  isn't playing," Bronwyn said. "Oh, no. Injury. But he still has to be there, doesn't he? Cheer them on. Cheer  _them_  on, mind you. Not me. He's only  _marrying_  me--or so he _thinks_."

Brand looked at her, apparently decided reason was useless, and turned to Gwen. "Vhy does she dislike me?"

_Because you're a sexist git_ , Gwen thought. "Because he's a Keeper, like you," she lied.

"But he is her fiance."

"They have an odd relationship. I really don't think we should be discussing this. Angharad, if you don't stop flipping your hair, I'm going to chop it off."

Angharad stopped flirting, via winks and posing, with Mari's six younger brothers (and Bronwyn and Blodwen's one) in the stands. "What's going on?" she said, pouting.

"Bronwyn's started on Darren-bashing."

"But he's so  _cute_ ," Angharad said.

"I am sorry, but I am confused," Brand said.

"We all are. Don't even try to understand," Gwen told him.

He considered it a minute. He nodded. "Yes, I think that vould be vize," he said.

"And we have--Lello!" Idris Baulch screamed triumphantly, having finally wrested control of the megaphone away from Adelheid von Roethlisberger. Gwen glanced up at the announcer's booth. Baulch was standing with his back to the door; he had apparently shoved von Roethlisberger all the way out of the booth. A loud thudding could be heard in the background, as though someone were trying to bash the door in. "Davies! Aaaand-- Griffiths! Argh!"

Baulch was knocked to the ground by a shower of splintered wood and irritated German witch in flowered dress as the door finally gave, but no one noticed.

The game was ready to begin.

 

* * *


	2. In Which They Actually Play Quidditch

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (2/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  tessfawcett@yahoo.com

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  I'm so glad people have been enjoying this... I know it's hard to keep everyone straight, there are so many characters. I've been working to try and get rid of some of the confusion, but I don't know how successful I was. If you're still confused, just complain about it in the review. Thanks to Trinity Day for helping me figure out some of the logistics involved in a really long Quidditch game. (It's not important until next chapter, but it was  _really_  bugging me.)

Brownie points to anyone who can correctly guess the surnames of two of the third-year Gryffindor girls (besides Morgan and Griffiths).

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH THEY ACTUALLY PLAY QUIDDITCH**

"All right, I see we are  _finally_  ready to get started..." The referee, Lionel Winkler, was a round little wizard in exquisitely clean robes. His face was very red; it was impossible to tell whether this was normal, sunburn, heat stress, annoyance, or some combination of all four. "If the captains will now shake hands..."

Gwen and Rudolf Brand both dismounted and shook hands. Brand smiled at her before re-mounting his broom. It made the man look positively half-witted, Gwendolyn thought. And this was the man who had been voted second-handsomest Quidditch player in the European League by  _Witch Weekly_? She'd have to write them an angry letter, although, admittedly, it was hard to take seriously a publication which began all of its articles about her own team with, "Lithe and lovely [fill in player name here] zoomed off into the distance, her [raven/golden/coppery] hair streaming behind her..."

"And--begin!" Lionel Winkler shouted.

Gwen immediately zoomed off to a position between the three goalposts.

"And it's Angharad Rees of the Harpies with the Quaffle, right off the mark as usual--" Idris Baulch bellowed. Gwen supposed he had managed to extract himself from underneath a very angry Adelheid von Roethlisberger and the remains of the door, but she kept her eyes on Angharad, a fast-flying blur on her Cleansweep Five, zooming down towards the other end of the field. The other two Chasers were flanking her as she aimed for the center goal, veering slightly towards the right.

Right before they reached the scoring area, one of the other Chasers veered down, while the second veered upwards, and Angharad zoomed to the left, dodging Keeper Rudolf Brand and tossing the Quaffle through the hoop.

The crowd screamed happily and Gwen did a loop-de-loop around the goalposts to let out her feelings; she could see, out of the corner of her eye, the large group of lads from Cardiff cheering particularly loudly and jumping up and down in their seats.

"First goal!" Glynnis Griffiths screamed as she zoomed by. She had been doing laps around the field, idly sweeping and occasionally diving, while she looked for the Golden Snitch.

"Hurray!" Gwen screamed back.

She noticed that Alberich Bastnagel, the Harrier Seeker, never got too far away from Glynnis... So he was marking her. Glynnis had seen it, too, because she was zooming around in the center of the field, far away from where the Harpy Chasers now had the Quaffle...

"Klopsch has the Quaffle!" von Roethlisberger screamed excitedly.  _Damn_ , Gwen thought.

"The sneaky, thieving little Teuton!" Idris Baulch bellowed angrily.

"Klopsch has the Quaffle..." von Roethlisberger continued. "He is heading down the field, he is heading for the goal..."

He damn well was. Blodwen Williams zoomed across his path, forcing him to dive under her, while the other two Chasers closed in on him from either side. He zoomed upwards, however, before they could get close enough to grab the Quaffle. A good fast flyer...

"Get him! Get him!" Gwen screamed. He was heading for the left-hand goalpost--right-hand for him--although his body was angling slightly more towards center, as though he were ready to turn at the last minute.  _We've already done that, you idiot_ , she thought, with some satisfaction. "Damn you,  _get_  him!" she screamed.

Beater Enid Davies whacked a Bludger in Klopsch's direction; he was forced to dive to avoid it, and Blodwen was immediately on top of him, snatching the Quaffle from his grasp and zooming off towards the other end of the field.

"Well done, Enid!" Gwen yelled, although she knew neither of the Beaters could hear her.

Rudolf Brand managed to pull off a last-minute save this time, much to Gwendolyn's fury, and then threw the Quaffle to one of the Harrier Chasers, Kriebl, who zoomed towards the goalposts at amazing speed. One of the Harrier Beaters was flanking him, flying around him in circles.

"Damn!" Idris Baulch screamed, as the Bludger Beater Enid Davies had sent flying towards the Chaser was immediately knocked back. Undeterred, Enid whacked it towards the offending Beater, who had to duck and nearly fell off his broom.

The rest of the Harpies, including Glynnis Griffiths, were closing in on Chaser Kriebl, however. He assessed his chances and threw the Quaffle, underhand, to his teammate Klopsch.

"What in the name of Merlin was  _that_?" Idris Baulch yelled. "What kind of moron throws the Quaffle underhand to someone on the other side of the field?"

"The kind that has the Quaffle, ha!" Adelheid von Roethlisberger replied.

"That shouldn't even count--that should be illegal--dammit, someone take the Quaffle away from that man! Why weren't you expecting this, Miss Morgan?"

 _Because Blodwen's husband's bloody contacts in Bulgaria didn't get me the tape of the Harriers' last match against the Vratsa Vultures until three o'clock this morning, and none of my team would answer their bloody fires when I called_ , Gwen thought, and then banished everything else from her mind as Chaser Klopsch approached the scoring area. He was distracted by Bronwyn Jones zooming up on his right, and threw the Quaffle too soon; Gwen deflected it easily. In the stands, she could hear the piping voices of the third-year Gryffindor girls: "Gwen-ny, Gwen-ny, Gwen-ny!"

"My dear Miss Morgan," Idris Baulch yelled delightedly, "how is it that you're not married yet?"

She resolved to punch him as soon as the game was over.

And Harpy Chaser Bronwyn Jones was off, the Quaffle in hand.

 

* * *

They had now been playing for four hours in a hot Welsh summer. The Harrier side of the stands was starting to look gloomy, although, on the Harpy side, neither the lads from Cardiff nor the third-year Gryffindor delegation seemed to be losing steam. The lads were whistling every time Angharad scored a goal, and Susan Griffiths and Gwyneth Morgan would every so often lead their dorm-mates in several incomprehensible chants. The only words Gwendolyn had been able to make out were "girls," "boys," "fly," "sky," and "extremely fat giant spiders," which probably had some sort of logic to it if you were thirteen.

The rest of the stands had become somewhat apathetic, and the crowds of both Harpy and Harrier supporters had shrunk considerably as mothers dragged their children off to be fed before returning to watch what would hopefully be the rest of the game.

The score was now thirty-sixty, in the Harpies' favor. Everyone else was down at the other end of the field, except for Glynnis, who was serenely zipping around the field, closely pursued by a dogged-looking Alberich Bastnagel. He was wasting his time; Glynnis could stay on her broom for hours, happily zipping along and doing nothing but the occasional fake-out, and somehow still keep her eyes peeled for the Snitch. "It's quite fun, really," she always said.

"Yes, nothing's really happening," Idris Baulch announced wearily. "It's Williams with the Quaffle, she's heading for the goal, yes, Mrs. Williams, score the goal like a good girl..."

Adelheid von Roethlisberger, on the other hand, was practically frothing at the mouth. "Stop that woman!" she screamed. " _Stop_  her!"

"They're not going to stop her, you stupid German cow," Baulch said, quite calmly.

"Aaaaargh!" Adelheid von Roethlisberger hurled herself at him, and for the next several minutes all that could be heard from the announcer's booth were grunts and thumps and squeals of pain. Gwen sighed and returned her attention to the field.

Glynnis went into a dive, hairpins flying from her hair like rats fleeing from a sinking ship. Bastnagel didn't even bother following. Gwen could hear Glynnis laughing as she came out of it. She glanced back at the other end of the field--Blodwen Williams still had the Quaffle, she and her twin sister and Angharad were in the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, heading for the goalposts--

Lionel Winkler blew his whistle. "Foul! Penalty to Heidelberg for stooging by the Holyhead Chasers!"

The Harpy supporters booed loudly. Gwen tried to pretend she couldn't hear Susan and Gwyneth and their friends screaming in the stands; they were calling Winkler names they weren't supposed to know yet.

"Argh!" one of the Beaters yelled. "Gwen--can we have a time-out?"

"All right, all right! Time out!" Gwen waved frantically at Winkler. "Time out after the penalty shot, all right? Shut up, Glynnis!"

"Ha!" Baulch screamed, having evidently returned to watching the game. "See? We have a penalty shot--"

"That is  _our_  penalty shot, idiot!" Adelheid von Roethlisberger shrieked.

"What? Merlin! Miss Morgan, I hold you personally responsible--your damn  _team_ \--do  _not_  let Mr. Klopsch score that goal, Miss Morgan!"

 _I'm trying, you stupid git_ , Gwen thought as she mentally ran through her options. She hated penalty shots. She'd kill her Chasers in a minute, as soon as this was over--hadn't she warned them about stooging at least fifty times in the past week?--Double Eight Loop was her best option: zooming around all three goalposts as fast as possible. It made you dizzy, unfortunately, which meant that you couldn't change tack and see where the Chaser was aiming the Quaffle--you just had to keep going. It worked well if the Chaser wasn't much good, but unfortunately, Klopsch was...

Sure enough, the Harrier Chaser scored. Forty-sixty, still in the Harpies' favor but not by nearly enough for Gwendolyn to be happy.  _Damn_  those girls. Stooging? Hadn't she _warned_  them, again and again--

Winkler blew his whistle again. "You have seven minutes!" he shouted.

The Harpies all flew over to land near the goalposts.

"Tommy's probably hungry," Blodwen announced. "I ought to feed him."

"We have seven minutes," Glynnis said. "I don't think that's time. Didn't you give Gareth a bottle or something to give to the baby?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. I'm the mother."

"And he's the father," Glynnis said.

"Considering you're not even  _married_ , Glynnis, I hardly think you're the person to--"

"Shut up," Gwen said. "Listen carefully. First off: what the hell were you doing?"

"We were planning a variation on the Porskoff Ploy," Blodwen said quickly. "Only we were going faster than we thought, and we got into the scoring area before I passed off--"

"Dammit, I have  _warned_  you about that. Many, many,  _many_  times. You  _always_  do that. I told you to be  _careful_."

"Sorry, Gwen," the Chasers chorused.

"Well, I should have stopped the Quaffle at the penalty shot--but you know I'm horrible at penalty shots, our best option is not to let them get any."

"You're a spanking good Keeper otherwise," Beater Mari Lello said brightly.

Gwen shifted her stance. This had the unfortunate side effect of making her shoulder hurt. "And what are  _you_  two thinking? Do those German Beaters--what are their names, Falck and..."

"Einbund," Beater Enid Davies said helpfully.

"Right, Einbund--do they  _own_  the Bludgers? Are the Bludgers suddenly the personal property of the other team?"

"No, Gwen," the Beaters chorused.

"So why the hell are they the only ones who've used them for the past hour?"

"We've been bloody busy," Mari said indignantly. "We had to stop Falck from thwarting Blod when she scored our last goal... and Diffenderffer's a right bastard, always cutting across the Chasers..."

"Yes, but when they have the Quaffle, you need to control the Bludgers," Gwen said. She sighed. "Look, I know some of this is my fault. You've gotten too used to working as sort of substitute Chasers, blocking people so that the Chasers can work as a unit, but that obviously isn't working here, so try and take control of the Bludgers, all right?"

"All right, Gwen," the Beaters chorused.

"And Glynnis--"

"Your hair's coming out of your hairpins," Blodwen said, scowling. Blodwen felt that Glynnis took Blodwen's offspring entirely too lightly, and that was just about the worst insult Blodwen could give someone.

"Oh, damn," Glynnis said.

"Don't worry about your damn hairpins," Gwen snapped. "You can fly with your hair in your face--you can fly with a broken nose if you have to."

"I don't think she's ever had to--" Beater Enid Davies began.

Glynnis grinned. "At school," she said.

"That's right, you lot were in Gryffindor," Angharad said, and yawned. It must be getting bad; she wasn't even flipping her ponytail and waving at the Cardiff boys.

"Shut up," Gwen said. "Glynnis, I cannot emphasize this enough:  _catch the bloody Snitch_."

"Haven't seen it," Glynnis said.

"Then stop swooping around the pitch like a bloody swallow and  _look_  for it."

Glynnis shrugged. "I still won't see it."

" _Try_."

"All right. I'm just saying--I won't see it."

"How do you know?"

"I just do," Glynnis said. "This is going to be a long one." She shrugged again. "I have a date on Tuesday, hopefully it will be over by then."

"This is a  _Saturday_ ," Bronwyn Jones said flatly, her blue eyes narrowing as she spotted a challenge.

"Right. And it looks like it won't be over until Sunday at least."

" _What_?" Blodwen said. "What about Tommy?"

"He has a dad, Blodwen; that's what they're  _for_."

"He needs his  _mum_ \--"

"We won't  _be_  here on Sunday if you catch the Snitch  _before then_ ," Bronwyn Jones said, glaring at Glynnis.

"Oh, Lord, both twins are after me now," Glynnis said. "I'm trying. If I see the bloody thing I'll grab it. But if I don't, there's nothing I can do."

"Wound Bastnagel," Mari Lello suggested. "Then they'll be short a Seeker and have to forfeit."

"Only do it if we're far enough ahead," Gwen said vaguely. "Otherwise they'll win, because they'll forfeit before we can catch the Snitch... and don't let anyone see you. Plough him or something."

"Gwen!" Angharad said, horrified. "Are you serious?"

"The problem is that the Wronski Feint only works once or twice in a twelve-hour period," Glynnis said.

"What?" Gwen said, distracted. "Don't you remember that match against Slytherin--"

"That's because Hesperus Flint had the brains of a catfish," Glynnis said. "There's a reason he isn't playing professionally."

"He did play for the Chudley Cannons for a bit, didn't he?" Gwen said, and then remembered that this was not the time for reminiscing. "All right, sorry. Is everyone all right? No one seriously injured?"

"You got bashed by a Bludger once or twice," Glynnis said.

"Yes,  _besides_  me."

"Are  _you_  all right?" Glynnis said.

"Of course I'm all right, Glynnis, it's just my shoulder. Is everyone all right, no one needs a mediwizard or anything?"

"Yes, we're all all right," Mari Lello said.

There was a brief disturbance in the stands. "Gwen!  _Gwenny!_  Gwenny, Gwenny,  _Gwenny_!"

Gwen looked up. Susan Griffiths and Gwyneth Morgan and their dorm-mates waved. One of them, a girl with bright-red hair, waved her wand and said something.

"Can you hear us?" Susan said, her voice sounding as though she were right next to them on the field. She sounded excited.

"Yes. We're sort of busy--"

"Tell Gareth to make sure that Tommy gets his bottle in fifteen minutes," Blodwen yelled.

"We can hear you fine, Mrs. Williams," Gwyneth Morgan said, her voice clear and cheerful. She and Susan both bore uncanny resemblances to their elder sisters, or would if the team could see them more clearly. Right now, Gwendolyn was distinguishing their figures by hair color, since she couldn't see their lips moving at this distance.

"We'll do that," Susan said.

"Kick some German butt!" one of the other girls yelled happily.

"Catriona, shut up, they can hear you fine--"

"How's everything going up there?" Gwen asked, giving up.

"It's fine. Bledri Jones has been drawing pictures of dragons all morning, he says he's getting bored and why don't you beat the Germans already?"

"We're trying," Gwendolyn said.

"I'm bored, too," Angharad said.

"That's a side-effect," Glynnis told her.

"Of what?"

"Of having the attention span of a gnat."

"Glynnis!" Bronwyn Jones snapped.

"This is just very boring," Angharad said.

"Score some goals," Gwendolyn said.

"Not the game,  _this_ ," Angharad said.

"Flirt with the Cardiff boys."

"I can't see them when I'm on the ground."

"Owen Lello thinks Angharad's pretty," Susan Griffiths said.

Angharad tossed her ponytail. "Which one is he?" she asked.

"The six-year-old," Mari Lello said.

"The game is very exciting," Gwyneth Morgan said diplomatically, hanging over the edge of the rail. Gwendolyn had to bite her tongue to keep herself from telling her sister to get off the rail before she broke her neck.

"No it's not," one of the other girls said promptly. "No one's been concussed yet."

"Emily, shut up, they're not the Falmouth Falcons--"

"Yes, but there haven't even been any  _fouls_  yet--"

"Shut up, Emily. Anyway, the Germans have all got their wives and things here. I think they must have all married trolls, honestly."

The red-haired girl giggled; Gwen could see her jumping up and down as she talked. "Mrs. Falck is the hairiest woman I've ever seen, she's almost as hairy as the Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, and he's got such bushy eyebrows that he looks like a  _cave_  man."

"Lovely, "Gwendolyn said. "Make sure to eat lunch, and keep up the cheering. We've got to get back to planning our strategies."

The girls all beamed and waved before heading back up to their seats.

"I'm bored," Angharad said again. "Can we get back to the game now?"

Gwen looked over at the referee. He held up one finger. One minute left. She sighed.

"Yes," she said.


	3. Mari Gets Mad and Enid Gets Even

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (3/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  tessfawcett@yahoo.com

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed "Love on the Quidditch Pitch" thus far, either here at Schnoogle or (the earlier version) at The Site Which Must Not Be Named: A-Chan, ajhall, Amber, Amberdulen, bluemeanies, Green Eyed Lady, Maat, Marix, Megdalyn, Molotovchicken, Nadezhda Serenskaya, Oi2, Storm Witch RD, Sylph, TiPster, and Twinkledru J. Reviews make every author's day-- thank you for taking the time!

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER THREE: MARI GETS MAD AND ENID GETS EVEN**

The sun had set and the Quidditch pitch was now illuminated by the light of hundreds of lanterns. Gwen hadn't noticed them being put up, though the sunset had really been quite pretty. She had been noticing things like that ever since that last Bludger had caught her on the back of the head. You didn't get sunsets like that often nowadays.

The score was ninety to one hundred and ten; the Harriers were slowly but surely closing in.

Lionel Winkler, the referee, blew his whistle. "Time out!" he called. "Captains to me!"

Gwendolyn and Rudolf Brand immediately flew over and landed on either side of the referee. Their teams followed more circumspectly, remaining on their brooms.

"Game's been going for twelve hours now, if either of you want to call a rest I'm allowed to give you a two-hour time-out," Winkler said.

Gwen looked at her opposite number. "What do you think?" she said politely.

"If the ladies are getting tired, ve can of course call a rest," Brand said, equally courteously. Unfortunately, it was loud enough that both teams could hear him.

Beater Mari Lello, perhaps suffering from fatigue and over-excitement, sent a Bludger flying at Brand's head. Angharad Rees screamed. Rudolf Brand ducked. The Harpy fans cheered wildly. Somewhere towards the front of the crowd, Mari's six younger brothers began to chant her name.

"What did you do  _that_  for?" one of the Harrier Beaters howled, aghast.

"Penalty to Harriers!" Winkler screamed. "You do not attack the Keeper during a time-out."

"We do when he's being a supercilious git," Glynnis Griffiths muttered. The Harrier Seeker had been on her tail all game, and she was getting sick of seeing a grinning little gnome-like face behind her every time she turned. As far as she was concerned, the only way Mari's shot could have been improved was if she had decapitated the silly ass--the Seeker  _or_ his captain.

Beater Enid Davies turned to her partner. "Well done, old girl."

"Thank you. Pity he ducked."

They both glared at the Harriers.

"Er," Brand said. "I take it that is a no, the ladies are not getting tired?"

"Sod  _off_ , you idiot," Gwendolyn Morgan said. Whatever she might privately think of Mari's behavior, it was her duty to publicly support her team. Right? Admittedly, she'd have to kill Mari later on, but that wasn't the  _point_.

They'd been playing for twelve hours and she'd been hit in the head by a Bludger. Expecting logic out of her really wasn't sensible.

"Definitely a no," Brand said, and looked at the referee. "Ve'll continue."

"Hurray for the weaker sex!" Mari shouted.

"We're ready for that penalty shot whenever you are," Gwendolyn said, got back on her broom, and flew off towards the goalposts.

 

* * *

Rudolf Brand was not happy. The Harriers were beginning to catch up, but they'd been playing for twelve hours. They were getting tired. Not that they could admit it--not when the girls were continuing on with a sort of steely-eyed intensity that suggested they would be removed from their broomsticks only when their corpses had grown cold enough that their grip on the handles could be broken.

The only sound from the announcer's booth was snoring. Regulations stated that an apprentice was supposed to take over from the regular announcer every eight hours, but the last apprentice who had tried to take over from Adelheid von Roethlisberger during a Quidditch game had had to have the pig snout surgically removed.

She was usually described, tactfully, as "territorial."

Rudolf Brand sighed and tried to focus on the field once more. The slim, dark-haired captain was still in place in front of the Harpy goals. Alberich Bastnagel, his Seeker, leering like a madman, had said, back at the beginning of the game when everyone had still had their wits (such as they were) about them, "Our beloved captain is a bit sorry that  _their_ captain is not one of the Chasers, no?"

This was admittedly true. He couldn't tell the Harpy Chasers apart, although he'd blocked five goals from them--all tall blond creatures with firm jaws and blue eyes. One of them was married, with a baby; he'd read the  _Who's Who in Professional Quidditch_  biographies of every single one of the Harpy players, both main team and reserves, but he still couldn't figure out which one was the married one, nor did he really care. The captain, on the other hand, was quite pretty.

One of his Chasers had managed to get hold of the Quaffle and was speeding towards the Harpy end of the field. Brand rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Alberich Bastnagel was still swooping around the Harpy Seeker, following her around and occasionally ducking across her path just to irritate her. Undoubtedly she wanted to kill him by now.

Alberich had, of course, fallen in love with her; he always fell in love with his female opponents. "You must love them to hate them, and you must hate them to catch the Snitch," he'd once explained. Rudolf had always wondered what Alberich did when the opposing Seeker was a boy, but it had seemed rude to ask.

Alberich's Quidditch pitch romances never ended well. He'd fallen in love with the Seeker of the Vratsa Vultures during their last match--Katarina something-or-other. After catching the Snitch, he'd asked her out to dinner. She'd given him a black eye by way of reply.  _Then_  it had transpired that she was engaged to one of the Beaters, who had then had to be physically restrained from breaking both of Alberich's legs.

The Harriers had had to leave Bulgaria somewhat hastily, irritating all three of the Chasers, who had been hoping to try out some of their recently-acquired Bulgarian on the local girls. They had complained the entire way back to Heidelberg. In a recent interview with the Harpies, Gwendolyn Morgan had been quoted as saying that "being a team captain is ten percent Quidditch, ninety percent baby-sitting." Rudolf was inclined to agree with her, the more so after that damn trip back to Heidelberg with Klopsch and Kriebl whining things like, "But that brunette in the stands, the one with the tits, was giving me the eye" the whole time.

Then there had been the time they had been playing the Karasjok Kites in Norway, and Alberich's attentions had irritated the Seeker so much that halfway through the seventh hour of the match, she had pulled out her wand and Transfigured him into a duck. Admittedly, the Harriers had gotten a penalty shot out of it, but Alberich had kept the tendency to quack and run around naked in the rain for several months afterwards. Amusing though it might have been, it was not an experience Rudolf Brand wanted to repeat. For the rest of his life he would remember the words, "Wait a minute! That's not our Seeker--that's a duck!" with a sense of horror and despair.

He wondered if Alberich would repeat his mistake with this team. The Harpy Seeker looked the sort to break his legs all by herself if the fancy struck her--no fiancé necessary. Nor did he put duck Transfiguration beyond her.

One of the blond Harpy Chasers had managed to steal the Quaffle from his own team and was flying towards him, her long ponytail streaming behind her. It was hard to focus on people in this poor light. Her two teammates quickly joined her. "Go, Bronwyn!" one of them yelled.

"Shut up, Angharad!" the Quaffle-bearer shouted back. Rudolf tried to figure out which goal she was aiming for. She was flying somewhat lackadaisically, looping around in circles. As she prepared to throw the Quaffle, a Bludger hit her in the shoulder, she dropped the Quaffle, and Dietrich Diffenderffer, bless him, caught it right before it hit the ground.

"Hideous little bastard!" the Quaffle-dropping Chaser screamed. One of the Harpy Beaters, the little one with the short dark hair, shrieked something obscene as Dietrich started towards the other end of the field. The other Harpy Beater sent a Bludger flying straight at his head. Dietrich ducked.

Rudolf sighed again. When would these dreadful women decide enough was enough and let them all go and get some sleep?

 

* * *

The end came less than two hours later--Harpy Beater Enid Davies had been husbanding a Bludger, looking for a good time to use it. When she hadn't had enough sleep, she got very hyper--she had a lot of energy but not a lot of control, and that was problematic, since she and her partner were not big slabs of meat like the Harrier Beaters, who could just sort of whack things and assume they'd hit them hard enough to inflict some damage  _somewhere_. So Enid, being the intensely well-disciplined Quidditch-playing machine that she was, reacted to sleep deprivation and the resulting sense of floating by focusing, as hard as possible, on one very small thing. Such as a Bludger. If she tried hard enough, she could damn well focus on that Bludger--as long as she didn't have to pay attention to much of anything else, such as the opposing team.

So Enid had found herself a Bludger and spent a lot of time over in a little corner of the field, playing with the Bludger and making sure it didn't get too far away, bonding with the Bludger a bit, you know, getting to know it, getting the feel of it, and then she'd waited for a good opening and whacked it at the Quaffle-bearing Harrier as hard as possible.

It worked even better than she'd thought, or perhaps not. The Harrier hadn't been paying much attention to Enid, who was inconspicuous, especially when compared to the giant Harrier Beaters or her own partner, Mari Lello, who was a zooming little spitfire, shrieking imprecations and insults whenever the Harriers scored, even at this late hour of play. Enid, furthermore, was not particularly pulchritudinous--she'd been called beautiful before, but only when someone was hoping to get her into bed--and was most  _certainly_  not blond, which made her of even less interest to Harrier Chaser Reinhard Kriebl.

He hadn't been expecting a Bludger out of what was, to all intents and purposes except Enid's, nowhere.

The Bludger, therefore, gave him a good hard unexpected whack. He was thrown off his balance and fell off his broom, all the way to the ground.

He landed with an unpleasant thud.

"Shit," Enid said. "I didn't want to maim the silly bugger."

The referee blew his whistle and mediwizards came jogging out to examine the man. Enid landed a few feet away and was soon joined by the rest of both teams. Gwen, looking tired and irritated, patted her on the shoulder and then went over to confer with the Harrier captain in a low voice. He looked surprised to see her, but pleased. Enid wondered what they were discussing.

"Well done!" Mari said fiercely, then ruined it by yawning. "I have to admit, I'm getting pretty bloody tired."

"It is getting late," Enid said.

"I've been flying around like a bloody maniac. I have to admit, I was wondering what you were doing with that Bludger, but I didn't like to ask and draw their attention to it."

"I hope he's not dead," Enid said.

"He's still breathing," one of the Chasers said. The Chasers' voices actually sounded quite alike. Enid had never realized it before. She rubbed a hand over her eyes. God, she really _was_  tired.

Gwen came back.

"We're taking a time-out," she said. "All of us. We're switching to the reserves, both teams."

"What's wrong with the Chaser?" Mari demanded. "If he needs to re-grow bones, we're giving them an unfair advantage, because they're not allowed to replace an injured player, and if we switch to the reserves, by the time we switch back he'll be better, and that will give them an unfair advantage."

"You've been spending too much time minding your little brothers, haven't you?" Enid said. That logic was almost worthy of Owen, the six-year-old Lello, and a future lawyer if Enid had ever met one.

Mari stuck her tongue out at her.

"Mari, we're all so bloody tired that having one Chaser more than they do won't give us any advantages," Gwen said wearily. "Anyway, they owe us one now." She glanced up at the announcer's booth. "Someone's going to have to wake Baulch and that German woman up," she said. "It's not going to be me, that's all I can say. We're going off for ten hours, then we'll replace the reserves again. I want you all to go straight to bed. If you still aren't asleep in an hour, I want you to go see Morpheus Price, the mediwizard; you remember where the tent is. If you don't, ask someone. He'll give you a sleeping draught. Try and be up by nine AM, then we'll all have breakfast and go over strategies. See you in the morning."

She turned and headed off the field.

"Hate to say it, but I'm actually relieved," Mari said, and yawned again. "Well, it's off to say good-night to the sprogs, and then to bed."

"The sprogs?" one of the Chasers said.

"My brothers."

"Oh." The Chaser was evidently not Blodwen Williams, because she didn't start talking about Tommy. Enid squinted at her. Bronwyn. Probably.

"I'm going to bed," she said, and followed her captain off the field.


	4. Fifty-Three Hours and No End in Sight

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (4/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  tessfawcett@yahoo.com

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Thanks to everyone who reviewed the third chapter, here and at ff.net: Amberdulen, bluemeanies, Fiat Incantatum, Maat, Marix, Springrain, teluekh, and thistlemeg. Make the author's day a little bit brighter and review after you read!

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER FOUR: FIFTY-THREE HOURS AND NO END IN SIGHT**

Fifty-three hours. Fifty-three  _bloody_  hours. Enid Davies zoomed past Harrier Chaser Klopsch, Beater Einbund, and Chaser Bronwyn Jones (with the Quaffle) to recapture a Bludger, which she sent straight at Klopsch's head. He ducked, but Bronwyn took advantage of his distraction to pass the Quaffle to her twin sister, who flew towards the goal. Rudolf Brand blocked the shot, damn him. Angharad grabbed the Quaffle and aimed again. No luck. One of the Harrier Beaters sent the other Quaffle flying towards her and she dropped the Quaffle.

Enid clicked her tongue in irritation. If it were earlier in the game, Angharad would have been yelled at, but they had been playing for  _fifty-three hours_  and no one was playing up to par. Enid dove for the remaining Bludger and got there right before Beater Falck, who growled at her as she whacked it straight at the Quaffle-holding Harrier Chaser. Ducked. Damn him. Mari grabbed the Bludger and sent it back at him. Enid sighed and checked the rest of the field as she soared towards her own team's goalposts.

Glynnis Griffiths, apparently getting bored with looking for the Snitch, came flying towards the huddle of Chasers and Beaters, Alberich Bastnagel in tow. That man, as Bronwyn had said during the last time-out, practically had his nose attached to Glynnis' bum.

Enid thought about what Katerina Orlova of the Vratsa Vultures had done to him after their last game--it had merited a paragraph in  _Witch Weekly_ , along with a shot of Bastnagel running around naked in the rain, with the caption, "Blamed on his then-recent duck Transfiguration--Bastnagel in Brussels, 1951"--and smiled. If he thought Glynnis was a sitting, ahem, duck, then he was going to be sorely disappointed.

The group dispersed as Glynnis came barreling through. Several of the Harriers shouted German obscenities, and Angharad Rees "accidentally" blocked Bastnagel from following.

"Whoops, sorry," she said, batting her eyelashes and then going into a dive underneath the very surprised German Seeker.

One of the Harrier Beaters sent a Bludger towards her; Enid whacked it in the direction of one of the German Chasers and yelled, "Get back at it, Ang!"

Angharad grinned before heading back towards Blodwen, who now clutched the Quaffle with the determined expression she usually wore only when expounding on the merits of breast- versus bottle-feeding.

Bastnagel was  _back_  on Glynnis' tail, if you could believe it. Well, as long as she didn't Transfigure him into a duck  _during_  the game... One of the Harriers dove towards Blodwen, nearly colliding with her, and another snatched the Quaffle from her hands.

"Bastards!" screamed Mari Lello, sending a Bludger towards them.

"Time out!" The referee waved his arms, blew his whistle, and then turned his back on the field, striding towards a man in serviceable black robes who was waving a piece of parchment around excitedly.

Enid wondered what had gotten up Winkler's bum, although with Lionel Winkler, one never knew. Ordinarily the sub-referee would handle off-field problems (such as that exciting bit a few hours ago where the announcers had tried to tear one another's hair out... Enid had been only half-awake for it, and anyway she was concentrating on Bludgers). Perhaps that  _was_  the sub-referee. Still, it must be important for a time-out to be called over it.

Enid gave a mental shrug as she guided her broom to a landing. They'd find out eventually.

The rest of the Harpies landed dispiritedly, and the team gathered together for what, at this point, could not be termed a "pep talk," no matter how far you tried to stretch the meaning of the word "pep."

"I've had absolutely no sleep," Angharad Rees moaned.

"We all have, Angharad, shut up," Glynnis Griffiths said.

"Oh, right, Miss 'Oh-this-is-going-to-be-a-long-game, I-can't-possibly-catch-the-Snitch,'" Bronwyn snapped.

"I'll catch it when I catch it. I can't catch it if I haven't seen it."

"Don't Transfigure Bastnagel into a duck, please, Glynnis," Enid said.

Everyone looked at her. She blushed.

"Solveig Henriksen from the Karasjok Kites Transfigured him into a duck two years ago and the Harriers got a penalty shot and Solveig was so angry that she nearly missed the Snitch."

"Right," Gwendolyn said briskly. "Well, we can't afford any of those--they've nearly caught up--so thank you for the warning, Enid."

"What if it was a really large duck?" Glynnis asked.

"You could probably get away with it  _after_  the game," Mari Lello pointed out.

"Not with  _her_  grades in Transfiguration," Gwen said. Glynnis stuck her tongue out at her. "Oh, grow up, Glynnis."

"Seekers are  _allowed_  to behave like small children," Glynnis said. "Look at Solveig Henriksen. She  _skis_ , for Chrissakes--she was on the bloody  _Olympic_  team.  _And_  she broke her leg doing it.  _Her_  captain doesn't complain about her behavior."

"Yes, but if brains were Unforgivable Curses, her captain would be able to torture, perhaps, a very small ant," Gwen snapped. "On a  _good_  day."

"Tommy's going to catch a cold, being outside this long," Blodwen said.

"Have Gareth take him home," Enid suggested.

"And not see his Mummy play?" Blodwen said indignantly.

"He's only eleven months old!" Mari Lello pointed out.

"Anyway, you're probably just a blur to him this far away," Enid said reasonably. Gwendolyn sighed. Glynnis patted her on the shoulder.

"There, there," she said.

"Eleven months, three weeks, and four days," Blodwen said dramatically. "Two entire  _days_  of my baby's life have gone by and I've barely had a chance to see him..."

"At least your husband's here," Bronwyn retorted. "Catch my fiance here! Oh, no. That would require being  _supportive_. Of his future  _wife_ , as opposed to his teammates, and we all know who's more  _important_..."

" _If_  I might have everyone's attention," Winkler yelled. "Teams to me--captains to me!" He produced a purple-and-yellow-spotted handkerchief from a heretofore unnoticed pocket in his robes and began mopping his face with it. He was sweating profusely.

Enid followed her teammates towards him. The Harpies assembled in a loose semi-circle around Winkler, facing the Harriers, who had done the same. Enid found herself in between Bronwyn, who had her arms folded and all of her weight thrown to one hip, the way she did when she was arguing with her fiancŽ, and Mari, who was scowling fiercely. Enid herself wasn't tall, but she realized, once more, that she topped Mari by nearly a head. She glanced across the circle to their Harrier counterparts.

Yes. Still big, still scowling, and still very, very ugly. The Chasers were looking variously bored and appreciative of Angharad--good to see  _they_  hadn't lost their pep, although Angharad hadn't been flirting with them ever since one of them had "accidentally" smacked her upside the head while trying to grab the Quaffle four hours ago. Angharad was fiddling with the trimming on her robes and eyeing the man who was standing next to Winkler.

Enid followed her gaze. Tall, morose-looking, deep-set eyes; he looked like an undertaker. Not really her taste, thanks muchly.

"What is it this time?" Gwen asked wearily. Enid looked at her captain. Gwen hadn't been dealing with this well. The fifty-three hours were getting to her, too, and according to Mari, Gwendolyn had spent half of their second sleeping break marking up her chalkboard and planning strategies. Her dark hair was falling out of its braids, there were circles under her eyes, and frankly, the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw's house ghost, had better pallor than Gwen did now.

"This is Mr. Llevelys," Winkler said heavily, mopping his face with the handkerchief. His face was about as red as a cherry now, or possibly one of those red rubber noses Muggle clowns wore, Enid thought. Every time he refereed a match, she half-expected him to have a heart attack in the middle of the field. "Mr. Llevelys is from the, er, the Dragon Reserve. Up in the mountains."

Everyone made an effort to smile and nod politely to Mr. Llevelys from the Dragon Reserve. He did not reciprocate. Mari nudged Enid in the ribs.

"What do you think  _he's_  here for?" she whispered. Enid shrugged.

Gwen was looking more irritated than ever. "Yes, that's very nice," she began.

Winkler held up one pudgy hand. " _Silence_ , Miss Morgan."

Gwendolyn folded her arms across her chest. The Harrier Captain's eyes flickered towards her... Enid's eyebrows shot up. Captain Brand hurriedly looked at the referee. Enid bit her lip.  _Stupid git_... Everyone else was too busy glaring at Winkler to notice. Enid looked back at Brand, who was watching Winkler with the pious expression that suggested he still went to church every Sunday. She shook her head. Maybe it was sleep deprivation and she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

"Mr. Llevelys is here with some very important news," Winkler continued.

_Supercilious git._

And even her capacity for  _insults_  was sinking; she'd thought of two people as "git" in the space of less than a minute, and she'd blushed-- _her_ , mind you--in front of her own teammates. In front of strangers would have been fine, and even normal. Enid was shy as hell when it came to people she barely knew. On the other hand, when you've managed to concuss everyone in the group with Bludgers at least twice because they're not fast enough at ducking, you get to be friends of sorts, and blushing is no longer necessary. You can be as sarcastic as you like and no one complains--at least not unless they've gotten to be really, really good at ducking Bludgers. Sleep deprivation.  _Fifty-three hours._

"Mr. Llevelys, if you please."

Llevelys looked at Winkler, then raked his emotionless gaze over the team. Angharad gave him a tentative smile, which he ignored, fixing his eyes on Gwen. Enid checked. No, nothing on Gwen's nose. It must be her natural aura of authority again. And here Enid had thought it only worked for getting tables in restaurants!

"There's a dragon on the loose," Llevelys said abruptly, his deep voice cracking like a whip across the silence. Angharad jumped nearly out of her skin.

" _Vat_?" Brand said, which pretty much expressed Enid's feelings on the matter.

"Nothing  _really_  serious," Winkler began, glaring at Llevelys for being so abrupt.

"Nothing serious?" Gwen said incredulously. "He said 'escaped dragon.'"

"Nothing really  _serious_ , Miss Morgan," Winkler said, glaring at  _her._

"An escaped dragon?" Mari Lello snapped. "Not  _serious_?"

"I am sorry," Brand said. "Perhaps my English is not so good. A dragon? This is the thing with the wings and the breath of fire, like so?" He began hopping up and down, flapping his arms and puffing his cheeks out. It cheered Enid up immensely. There was a smattering of applause from the stands.

"No, no, no, your English is fine, Mr. Brand," Winkler said wearily. "However, the dragon keepers would like to... What  _is_  it the dragon keepers would like to do?"

Llevelys looked momentarily lost. "I am under instructions to tell you," he said, and started digging around in the pockets of his robes.

Bronwyn Jones folded her arms across her chest. "I do not  _believe_  this," she said. "It's ridiculous."

"If there's a dragon on the loose, I'm going to have to see to Tommy," Blodwen said angrily. "Dragons on the loose eating people's children. What's next, legalized murder on the Quidditch pitch?"

The smallest of the Harrier Chasers, whose grasp of English was apparently better than that of his teammates, began to look alarmed.

"Shut up, Blodwen," Gwendolyn said.

"But Tommy--"

" _Now_ , Blodwen."

" _Thank_  you, Mrs. Williams," Winkler said, drawing himself up to his full height. He was still a good two centimeters shorter than Gwen. " _Mr._  Llevelys, if you please."

"I am under instructions to tell you..." Llevelys said again, still rooting around in his pockets.

"We  _got_  that, thanks," Bronwyn said acidly.

"Ah!" Llevelys produced a rumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. "Here we--no, that's the shopping list for the lads down at the Reserve, we didn't know if the dragon would make it to Beaumaris..."

"I live in Beaumaris!" Blodwen nearly screamed. "My husband--my  _child_ \--"

"Blodwen. Shut. Up. Now."

Gwen was using The Scary Voice. Enid hurriedly plastered a rapt expression on her face and directed it at Llevelys.

"I saw that, Enid," Gwen snapped. "Don't be Miss Clever Clogs."

"She can't help it, she was a Ravenclaw," Enid's partner, Mari Lello, said sweetly. Enid aimed a kick at her. Mari, with six brothers' worth of experience, easily ducked out of the way.

"Ah! Here we go!" Llevelys squinted at his latest piece of parchment. A rather interesting assortment of items was littering the ground in front of him. Enid squinted. A broken foe-glass, the shopping list, what looked like a spool of twine...

"In order," Llevelys began to pontificate, "to prevent a repeat of the unfortunate Ilfracombe Incident, it is necessary for the dragon to be lured to an area which is neither inhabited by or noticeable to the Muggle population at large. As regulations require a standard Quidditch pitch to be charmed with Muggle-Repelling Charms--"

"You bloody well can't have it!" Gwen snapped. " _We're_  certainly not forfeiting!"

"Forfeit?" Brand said, his face springing into alertness like a beagle's. "Vat forfeit?  _Ve_  vill not forfeit!"

"... it has been resolved that the natural place to place a dragon-entrapping operation is next to the Quidditch patch, necessitating the clearing of the eastern-most stands," Llevelys continued doggedly.

"Good, because we're not forfeiting," Gwen said, just to make things clear.

"Neither are ve," Brand said.

Gwen rolled her eyes.

"Shouldn't be hard to clear out the stands," Mari Lello said. "After the crowd finds out that there's a dragon on the loose, we'll have to chain them to the benches to get them to stay."

" _Our_  fans vill stay," Brand said.

Gwen glared at him. "Only because Germans are too stupid to know how troublesome dragons can be."

"Miss Morgan, Mr. Brand, please!" Winkler said. "I have to tell the announcers in a moment. Please don't overwhelm me with ethnic insults before I tell them--I'll get enough of it from them."

"You haff the rudest announcer I haff ever  _heard_ ," Brand said.

"Really?" Gwen folded her arms. "How dreadful for you. You must have led a very sheltered life."

"Adelheid von Roethlisberger is among the best announcers in Germany--"

"Well, that says a great deal about the state of German Quidditch announcing, doesn't it?" Gwen said.

"You can tell the announcers that everything will be fine," Llevelys said. "We are trained to deal with dragons--"

Winkler rolled his eyes. "My dear sir," he said, "have you ever tried to reason with Idris Baulch at the height of a Quidditch match? Add to that the fact that he seems to be surviving entirely on caffeine and spleen at the moment, and this becomes a task that I should be more than happy to delegate."

"Fat chance," Mari Lello said.

"I should go and talk to Gareth," Blodwen said, drawing herself up to her full height. She looked like the Incarnation Of Loving Young English Motherhood. In green Quidditch robes. "He  _must_  take Tommy home  _immediately_."

"We should all go," Glynnis Gryffiths said. "I expect our sisters will be going home, Gwen."

Gwen stared at her. "Are you mad? They'd chain themselves to the seats before they'd leave. We should go, though. It was hard enough getting Mum to let Gwyneth come with only Uncle Hippo for supervision. If Gwyneth gets trampled, I'll never hear the end of it."

"You have an uncle named Hippo?" Bronwyn Jones said incredulously.

"Great-uncle Hippolytus Morgan. He was a magical creatures vet, back in the day. He doesn't get out much nowadays. I'm afraid this may be a bit too much excitement for him. I'd better go check. Their friends might leave, of course, and your brothers might, Mari."

"Are you kidding?" Mari Lello said. "This is the most excitement they've had at a game in years. You couldn't drag them away. I'd better talk to my mum, mind."

"Shall we say start up again in twenty minutes?" Gwen continued.

"Half an hour," Winkler said. "I have to break the news to Idris Baulch and the German woman, and then they have to break the news to the crowd." He squared his shoulders. Glynnis slapped him on the back.

"Cheer up," she said. "Think how much more fun it would be if you waited until the dragon showed  _up_  to make the announcement."

Winkler glared at her and headed towards the announcement booth with the dispirited step of a man on his way to his own execution.

 

* * *

Gwyneth Morgan and Susan Griffiths, predictably, found the whole thing terribly exciting and had no intention of going anywhere.

"Are you  _mad_?" Gwyneth said.

"It's the sleep deprivation," Susan said knowledgeably, with the confidence of a thirteen-year-old who's had two episodes consisting of a good ten hours of sleep in a tent and needs nothing more. "It's unhinged their minds."

"Where's Uncle Hippo?" Gwendolyn asked.

"Last we saw him, he was prodding a bird cage with his umbrella over by the tents, talking about illegal public display of animals," her sister said. She shrugged. "I don't know, he was talking about the Emergency Import Regulations of 1941, I think he's forgotten what year it is again."

"What are you going to do if the dragon shows up?" one of the other girls asked excitedly. "Hit it with a Bludger?"

"Something like that," Gwen said. Glynnis grinned.

"Dunno, the dragon-keepers may need to borrow our broomsticks," she said.

"Well, if they do, it's too bloody bad, because  _they can't have them_ ," Gwen snarled.

Glynnis patted her shoulder. "Think positively," she said. "This one'll probably go down in history."

"I'm so excited," one of the girls, the red-haired one, said. "This never happens at a Cannons game."

" _Nothing_  ever happens at a Cannons game, Jen," another girl said.

"Right, like your 'Prides' are so much better. They've lost consistently--"

"Not since  _1892_."

"Shut up!"

"The Falmouth Falcons would hit the dragon with Bludgers," the first girl said happily.

"The Falmouth Falcons will hit  _anything_  with Bludgers, Emily," Susan told her.

"This is even more exciting than a Falcons game," the girl said, undaunted. "My brothers will be so jealous."

One of the Lello brothers chose that moment to drop something on Gwyneth's head. She screamed.

"Which one was that?" Susan demanded, looking around.

" _What_  was that?" the Falcons fan said.

"Hagvan, you little  _jerk_!" red-haired Jen howled.

"It was a broken quill," Gwyneth said, removing it from her hair. "With  _ink_  in it. I have  _ink_  in my hair. Gross!"

"So you all are staying?" Gwendolyn said.

"Jen's dad'll want her to go home, but she won't," Gwyneth said, snapping back to the matter at hand. "Anyway, all the German people's families look like staying, and one of those Chasers has some absolutely  _poisonous_  looking cousins we may have to do something to, and I think Uncle Hippo's worried that if we go home Grindelwald's going to bomb the field."

"Well, all right then," Glynnis said.

"Behave yourselves," Gwendolyn admonished. Jen and Susan, halfway up the stands in hot pursuit of a grinning Hagvan Lello, ignored her. So did the rest of them.

Gwen sighed.

"Let's go back down, Gwenny," Glynnis said comfortingly.

"I don't want it to go down in history, Glynnis," she said miserably. "I want to  _win_."

"Well, we will. Eventually."

"Can't you catch the Snitch?"

"I haven't seen the bloody thing in hours, Gwen, and every time I have, Bastnagel's flown at me laughing like a bloody maniac and I've had to duck him and lost sight of it."

"It's been fifty-three hours," Gwen moaned. "I'm so tired I just want to burst into tears."

"Look positively," Glynnis said comfortingly. "Night after this one's full moon. Won't that be pretty?"

Gwendolyn Morgan considered the prospect of  _still_  not having finished playing this game more than twenty-four hours later.

She very nearly  _did_  burst into tears.

 

* * *

"Vell, everyone is leaving. Cowardly English."

"We're not English, you cow! We're Welsh! Anyway, if you weren't blind as well as stupid--"

"I am not stupid!"

"Perhaps you're just blind, then, you miserable hag! If you weren't, you'd see that it's the Germans who are leaving. The Welsh stand their ground!"

"Ve are only moving. Our stands are being closed for the dragons--"

"Ha! Teutons always turn tail and run! It's a national trait!"

"At least ve do not drink tea that could be brewed from the sputum of a dead Hungarian Horntail!"

"No, you drink beer that's so watery it could be sold as lake water without anyone noticing the difference!"

"You horrible little gnome, vhy must you inflict me like this?"

" _Afflict_ , you stupid charm-bereft witch. ' _Afflict_  me.' And  _I'm_  not the one doing the afflicting!"

Enid examined her fingernails. She was an only child and her parents had said, "Really... the Germans... isn't that nice, dear... Unfortunately we're going to be in, er, Scotland at the time." She didn't have anyone to warn. She got to sit on the field and examine her fingernails and glower at the blond Harrier Beater, who was arguing with his extraordinarily ugly wife in voluble German. And, of course, listen to Idris Baulch and Adelheid von Roethlisberger feud.

She took another glare at the Harrier, now bellowing, "Hati! Something something something" at his hairy wife--much good learning Gobbledygook at school had done her; the goblins had yet to field a professional Quidditch team, at least one the League would recognize--and headed back to her tent to find a book.

Up in the announcers' booth, Baulch and von Roethlisberger were beating each other about the head with their illegal copies of  _The Complete List of Quidditch Fouls_.


	5. Life In the Stands

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (5/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Yes, this chapter took forever. I'm sorry. Hopefully Chapter 6 will come out much more quickly. (I have a rough draft already done, hurray!) If you'd like to shave a few days off the arrival time, check out [Angsty Bludgers](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/angstybludgers/), my Yahoo group, which gets chapters as soon as I send them in to Schnoogle.

This is yet another chapter in which nothing else happens. We get to know the third-year Gryffindors a bit better. Chapter 6 will take us back onto the Quidditch Pitch.

A great big thank you to everyone who's reviewed Chapter 4: Amara, Amberdulen, Calypso, Chained Dove, DragonRider Mage, Emily Anne, Ennia, Fiat Incantatum, Jessie, Maat, Melodylemming, Narcissa Malfoy, Peanut Gallery, RascalMagic, Storm, susan hall, and thistlemeg.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER FIVE: LIFE IN THE STANDS**

Gwyneth Morgan and Susan Griffiths were best friends. Absolute best friends. It had begun on the very first day of school, when, after the sorting, they had all gone up to the third-year Gryffindor girls' dormitory and started unpacking. Susan had tacked up a poster of the Harpies over her bed.

"Are they your Quidditch team?" a voice had asked from behind her. She had turned and seen Gwyneth Morgan, freckle-faced and looking terribly excited.

"Yes, my sister's Seeker."

"Mine's Keeper!" Gwyneth had shouted delightedly.

Their friendship had persevered through thick and thin. Indeed, the teachers felt that the now-third-year Gryffindor girls were an unusually close... perhaps  _too_  close... group. There were suspicions regarding that unfortunate incident involving the Potions Master and an exploding... well, better not to say.

The group had had its moments of trial and tribulation: Emily Fawcett's stated preference for the Falmouth Falcons, Jen Weasley's affection for the Chudley Cannons, or the fact that Catriona McCormack had the hideous bad taste to be actually  _from_  the Isle of Skye, and therefore, of necessity, supported the Pride of Portree above all other teams. But affection--and a concerted hatred for the five hideous girls who made up their year in Slytherin--kept them going.

In a game such as this, of course, there was no question of whom they supported. The Germans were lousy, horrible, and probably cheaters as well. It was amazing they hadn't been drummed out of the European League already. How dare they have the effrontery to come here and challenge our very own Holyhead Harpies? The Harpies, valiantly led by Susan's and Gwyneth's sisters, would of course beat these insolent whelps into the ground.

But things were not going well. Off the field, the presence of Jen Weasley's mother was being threatened (not to mention the dragon, although Jen's mother would probably provide considerably more of a damper on things), and Emily Fawcett was getting frankly bored, and Catriona McCormack kept pointing out the flaws in the Harpies' Chasers' strategies, which Susan and Gwyneth felt was very bad form. She ought to at least not mention them. They had been playing for more than two days now, of course they were tired.

"Whoops!" Catriona said gleefully. "Klopsch is going to grab the Quaffle... see, there he goes..."

There was a brief disturbance as dark-haired little Owen Lello came running through their part of the stands, pursued hotly by various elder siblings. He flung himself down in between Jen Weasley and Susan Griffiths.

Emily Fawcett, with far too many brothers of her own (although they were thankfully back home in Ottery-St. Catchpole, or off elsewhere wreaking havoc), prudently stuck out a foot and tripped the pursuer. Hagvan Lello, aged fourteen, fell down, cursed loudly, picked himself up, and lunged at Emily. One of his brothers, apparently older, or at least wiser (not that this was hard, considering it was  _Hagvan_ ), grabbed him before he could do anything and dragged him off.

Susan Griffiths patted Owen's arm. "You'd better sit down here, they won't bother you," she said kindly.

Owen stared at her for a minute, then slowly edged away. He was a small boy with a pointy nose. He put many people in mind of a Niffler, although they could never exactly say why.

"You can't talk to him that way, Sue, he's a boy," Emily Fawcett said contemptuously.

"How should I know?" Susan said. "I haven't got any brothers."

Jen Weasley, who had one herself (with another one threatened any day now, although it might be a girl--not that she considered her current  _sister_  any improvement), rolled her eyes and held out a box. "Licorice wand, Owen?"

He eyed them suspiciously.

"We didn't do anything to them," Susan said reassuringly.

Owen gave her another suspicious look. Emily Fawcett wondered if his younger brothers had ever set him to work sniffing out gold in the ground. He certainly looked as if he'd be able to do the job properly.

"Little boys don't listen to reason," Emily said, taking a licorice wand herself and sitting down on Jen's other side. "They're known for it. That was fun. I wonder if they'll come back?"

"See, Rees is listing to the right... She's getting tired." Catriona McCormack, to Susan's left, shook her head. "Very poor form," she said.

"Did I miss anything exciting?"

Everyone, including Owen, twisted around to look at the elderly man who had hurled himself happily down on the bench behind them. He was thin, with sparse gray hair. It had carefully been combed over to hide a dime-sized bald spot somewhere in the back. His robes had clearly seen better days, although one would have been hard-pressed to say whether they dated from the 1930's or the 1830's. This dilemma would not have been solved by learning that he held firm views on the foreign policy of Queen Victoria, whom he referred to as "that young biddy who fancies the German chap," since it was entirely possible, after all, that someone  _else_  had bought the robes for him in the 1930's. Such as a niece. Such as Gwyneth's mother.

The girls, at age thirteen, were far too wise to bring up the subject of his clothing or the late Queen Vic. The only thing that would be worse would be bringing up Grindelwald. Or The War. Or animals. Or Muggles. Or just about anything, except possibly Quidditch.

Gwyneth's mother, for reasons known only to herself, had thought it might be a good idea for "the poor old bastard" to get out a bit. This was proving to have been a bad idea on her part, although luckily there had not, so far as the girls knew, been a repeat of the dreadful moment some eighteen hours ago when he had donned a black-and-red cape and run along the upper edge of the stands with surprising rapidity for a man of his age, screaming about the importance of proper animal import regulations.

"No, Uncle Hippo," Gwyneth said, from the far left of the box, next to Catriona. "You haven't missed anything at all. Where have you been?"

Uncle Hippo tapped the side of his nose. "Here and abouts, Lucy. Here and abouts."

"Mum's Lucy, not me," Gwyneth said. "I'm Gwyneth."

"We don't have to use code names at the moment," he said. "I don't think  _You-Know-Who's_  forces will dare to attack."

The girls exchanged looks, rolled their eyes, and returned their attention to the game. Owen took a licorice wand from the box and began to eat it.

"Kriebl's got the Quaffle," Susan moaned. "Oh, no..."

"Don't let him score, Gwenny!" Gwyneth screamed. "Stop him!  _Yes_!"

"Ooh, that was a good save," Catriona said. "Whoops, Diffenderffer's got it... Good Merlin, that was a good save, Rees can really fly when she wants to, can't she? There we go... Ooh, good save by the Harrier Keeper. He can fly quite well, can't he? Nearly as good as your sister."

"Don't be ridiculous, she's loads better than him," Gwyneth snapped. "I'm surprised he's able to stay on his broom."

"I think my bum's gone to sleep," Emily said.

"Shut up, Emily."

Emily, somewhat offended, reached for another licorice wand, only to discover that there were none left.

"There was half a box here," she said indignantly. "What happened?"

Susan glanced at the box. "I don't know... No, no,  _no_ , Rees, don't let him get that Quaffle--oh, the  _idiots_!"

Emily leaned around Susan. There were several reddish sticks poking out of Owen Lello's mouth.

"You just crammed the rest of the box into your mouth, didn't you?"

Owen considered it for a minute, smiled as best he was able to around a mouth-and-a-half-full of licorice wands, and nodded.

"I hope you choke," Emily said, and settled back into her seat.

At least he wasn't  _her_  brother.

She'd actually gotten some licorice, for one thing.  _Her_  brothers would have taken the whole box.

The game was still boring.

"Is your sister even looking for the Snitch, Susan?" Catriona said, watching Glynnis Griffiths fly idly around the pitch.

"Of course she is, don't be stupid," Susan snapped.

"It doesn't look like it, that's all."

"That's because she's very clever," Susan said.

"Oh."

"Jenny!" A redheaded man was standing just outside their box, waving. "Jenny!"

Jen Weasley made her way to the edge of the box. It necessitated stepping over Uncle Hippo, who had produced several complicated-looking diagrams and was muttering to himself about air-raid defenses, but Jen was an athletic sort of girl and stepping over one elderly senile old coot presented no difficulties.

"Yes, Dad?" she called.

"Come down here!"

It was several minutes before she returned to the box. She flung herself down next to Emily.

"My mum's coming," she said. " _And_  the brats."

"What, both of them?"

" _Why_?"

Jen rolled her eyes. "Some stupid thing... he's afraid she's going to go into labor while he's gone or something stupid like that."

"The game will end any minute," Susan said firmly, watching her sister swooping around the pitch, closely pursued by the irritating little German Seeker.

" _Yes_!" Gwyneth screamed, as her sister prevented the Harrier Chasers from making yet another goal.

"She's getting a trifle sloppy," Catriona said sententiously. "She was listing a bit to the left. She did that last goal, too. If they notice, she'll be in trouble."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm sure she's planning it."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Gwen's brilliant. She doesn't  _make_  mistakes."

"But--"

"She doesn't make mistakes," Gwyneth repeated icily.

Catriona shrugged. "I was just--"

" _No_  mistakes, Catriona."

"When are they coming?" Emily asked Jen.

"He's gone to fetch them now."

"Oh."

"Bugger," Jen concluded gloomily.

Blodwen Williams managed to get a goal through the hoops. They all stood up and applauded. Owen ducked under the bench and discovered the cache of chocolate frogs.

 

* * *

The presence of Jen's mother came, as threatened, a scant two hours later. Cybele Weasley was the sort of woman who had received letters from the Ministry asking her not to escort her elder daughter to King's Cross Station in future.

It was not so much that Cybele disliked Muggles as that she was intensely fascinated by them, and desired nothing so much as to learn more about them. Muggles found it strangely alarming when people started Apparating out of thin air and trying to explain the principles of Quidditch to them.

The Ministry lived in fear of the day when Mrs. Weasley would be left childless and alone in the house with her husband. The prospect of Cybele Weasley on the loose without runny noses to wipe had been known to make grown men at the Department of Accidental Magic Reversal break down and sob.

Luckily for the Ministry's peace of mind, at this moment Cybele Weasley was nine months pregnant and had three children between the ages of thirteen and five to look after. These kept her busy enough that she was only able to question Muggles and wreak havoc during all-too-rare spare moments.

This newest baby was going to be Morgause, if a girl, and Percival, if a boy. Someone had unfortunately given her a copy of  _Le Morte d'Arthur_  when she was at a young and impressionable age; her eldest three children were Guinevere, Arthur, and Elaine. Guinevere had shortened her name to Jen as soon as was humanly possible, and Arthur was widely assumed to be named after an elderly and boring great-aunt (a funny story, that); Elaine, well-aware that she had only narrowly escaped being a boy and named Lancelot, was grateful for her reprieve, when she was not trying to eat things she found in the dirt.

Most children outgrow this phase, but Elaine was the sort of child who announced that worms were the tastiest food in the world and she intended to eat nothing else for the rest of her life and  _meant_  it.

With both Elaine and Arthur in tow, as well as all the gear necessary for camping out for however many days this bloody match would take, Cybele was rather busy. She smiled kindly at the girls, kissed Jen on the top of the head, said, "My, doesn't the little Niffler boy look a nice playmate for Elaine" (who scowled, and retreated behind her mother as far as possible), and settled herself down on the far end of the box with a pair of binoculars and, more importantly,  _Jane Eyre_ , which she believed contained all the necessary information about the Muggle world to be obtained... if only she could get through the bloody thing.

It took her three minutes to decide that the Quidditch game was far too noisy to provide a proper reading environment. She rose, said good-bye to the girls, kissed Jen on the top of the head, admonished them to send the little Niffler boy down to play with Elaine should he get bored, and swept her way down to the campsite, where her hapless husband was still endeavoring to set up the extra tent. It was not going well.

"Do you need any help, dear?"

"Er," her husband said, beating at the tent peg with a spare wand. "No," he said. "You're nine months pregnant, there's a chicken in the box if you're hungry, sit down in the chair and relax."

Cybele sat down in the chair and indicated to the children that they might sit down where they pleased. She had a large box of reading material. She opened  _Jane Eyre_. She began to read.

"I'm bored," Arthur Weasley, aged eight, announced exactly four minutes and half a page later.

Cybele fixed her son with a gimlet stare. "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

She stared for a while longer, but not for nothing had Arthur managed to reach the age of eight in the Weasley household. Finally his mother gave in, reached into her seemingly bottomless box of Muggle and Muggle-related texts, and produced a volume. "Here, why don't you read this nice book?"

Arthur regarded  _Muggles and Mishaps: A History of Muggledom_ , by J. Doe, with a jaundiced eye. It was seven hundred pages long and had won three awards. It was the sort of the book that the Ministry would have been willing to pass laws about keeping out of the hands of Cybele Weasley, if only because they suspected (and rightly so) that she would start cornering Muggles on the street and asking them what they thought of page three-hundred and seventy-six.

"It looks boring," he said.

"Or Mummy can tell you a story."

Arthur considered it a minute.

He took the book.

He looked up after a minute, at his younger sister and then at the extremely pregnant bulk of his mother. "Elaine's eating worms again," he said.

Cybele sighed. Children these days.

She herself, of course, had always been a perfect angel.

 

* * *

 


	6. Dimwits and Dragon-Keepers

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (6/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  See? Chapter 6 didn't take very long at all. I don't know when Chapter 7 will be out, however, since I'm having problems writing it. It just won't come out right. I'm trying, I promise! (If you'd like to yell at me about it, you can easily do so on [Angsty Bludgers](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/angstybludgers/)\-- plug plug.)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter 5: Amberdulen, Calypso, Chained Dove, Emily Anne, Melodylemming, Narcissa Malfoy, Nicola Six, PeanutGallery, Serena, and Storm. A  _big_  thank-you to Kristie, who beta-read this chapter for me.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER SIX: DIMWITS AND DRAGON-KEEPERS**

The dragon-keepers' brooms cleared the horizon just before sunset. Silhouetted against the setting sun, their robes flapping around them, they looked like the priests of some ancient and mysterious god.

One of the Harrier Chasers was awe-struck enough to loosen his grip on the Quaffle, and Angharad, bless her self-absorbed little heart, grabbed the Quaffle from him and scored with it. That girl had the heart of a Philistine when it came to beauty that she couldn't see every day in a mirror.

There was a brief disturbance as an elderly man in the crowd sent up sparks from his wand. He was audible even from over by the Harpy goalposts, where Enid was questing after an errant Bludger.

"Grindelwald's bombing, you fools! Take cover! Taaaaake coverrrrr!"

"Oh, bugger, it's Uncle bloody Hippo," Gwen said.

Enid glanced out at the crowd. The sparks had stopped.

"I think they've got him under control," she said reassuringly, and hit the Bludger towards the nearest Harrier.

"They'd better, or I'm going to kill Gwyneth," Gwendolyn snapped. " _Dammit_ , Angharad," she called, " _don't_  let him have that Quaffle--"

The bugle call of the referee's whistle sounded silvery and clear in the nearly-night air.

"Son--sonorus!" said the referee. Winkler had gone off-duty; this was one of his underlings--and a young one, at that. His voice cracked halfway through. "Um. Time out."

" _Bugger_  that!" Gwen howled. "We've got the Quaffle, you bloody idiot!"

The referee cringed away from her as she soared towards him. Gwendolyn was really good at inspiring terror while flying towards someone at great speed. It was a pity she wasn't a Chaser.

She pulled to an abrupt halt less than a meter away from the referee, who had rapidly turned into a tiny little broomstick-riding ball of black-robed terrorized whimpers.

"Buck up, you idiot," Gwen said, "and tell us what you want so we can get back to business."

"The dragon-keepers have arrived," he wailed. "Mr. Winkler said to call a time-out and to wake him up when that happened. I'm  _sorry_ , it wasn't my idea, I didn't want to do it. It wasn't even my turn, only Perkins wanted to have dinner in Beaumaris and I said I'd trade and they weren't supposed to get here for another six hours!"

"Oh, shut up," Gwen snapped, and landed on the Quidditch pitch. Enid landed a safe distance away--no reason to risk antagonizing Gwen right now--and smiled encouragingly. "Don't leer, Enid," Gwen said angrily, "no one does 'social and silly' worse than a Ravenclaw. I'm getting my chalkboard. Don't let anyone leave the field." She strode off, her broomstick under one arm.

The Harriers and the other Harpies quickly landed nearby. Rudolf Brand looked after Gwen's retreating figure and said something in German.

"What was that?" Mari Lello said, snapping to attention, dark eyes so wide they were nearly bugging out. "What did he just  _say_?"

That tone of his had Enid's own hands clenched in fists by her side, so all she said was, "Blodwen?"

"Mmm? I should--"

"What did Brand just say?"

"What? Oh, 'There goes a real woman.' Do you think I should--"

Mari gave a howl of outrage. Enid dove for her just in time to get a handful of dark-green Quidditch robes, and Bronwyn hurriedly helped Enid restrain her fellow Beater.

"Sod the little bugger!" Mari shouted. " _Sod_  you! Patronizing git!"

"There, there," Enid said, patting her shoulder.

Blodwen was peaceably and obliviously listing the pros and cons of going to her tent and checking on Tommy. "I might wake him up, but I ought to be sure that Gareth wrapped him up in his cold-weather snuggly before putting him to bed--and he might not have put the blankets in the correct order, he can never remember that it's the blue clowns  _before_  the yellow Kneazles--"

The dragon-keepers had landed on the pitch and were sorting themselves out. All of them were wearing serviceable black robes. Several of them started untying bundles from the back of their brooms, while one of the others started towards the cluster of Quidditch players. Mari shook off Enid's hand.

"I'm all right," she said, glaring at Brand. "I won't attack him.  _Yet_."

Brand was looking at them all as though they were a pack of rabid dogs and he was a senior citizen armed with only a small footstool.

Enid frowned at him. Surely this sort of rampant chauvinism was no more acceptable in Heidelberg than it was in Holyhead?

"Hallo!" the approaching dragon-keeper called. He came close enough for Enid to see that he wasn't a bad-looking sort: tall, fair-haired, grey-eyed, slightly confused-looking, although that was understandable enough. He held out a hand. Enid shook it.

"Enid Davies, Beater for the Holyhead Harpies," she said. "Blodwen, Gwen said  _not to leave the field_."

"But Tommy--"

Bronwyn gently steered her sister back towards the Quidditch pitch. "Not now, Bloddy," she said.

"But Tommy--"

Angharad flipped her ponytail over one shoulder, blue eyes fixing on the dragon-keeper like a well-aimed Tarantallegra curse.

"I'm Angharad Rees," she said, and started to twirl a strand of hair around one finger.

The dragon-keeper smiled politely at her and returned his attention to Enid. "Algernon Longbottom," he said.

His accent was very posh and very English. One of the very, very old pureblood families, presumably. The Davieses were as common as muck and twice as well-read, as Enid's father always said.

Mari Lello sniffed. The Lellos had more of an inferiority complex.

"Head dragon-keeper of the reserve," he continued. "We were told to set up camp on the easternmost stands. Do you think it would be all right if we began now? The sooner we get our equipment set up, the better."

Enid shrugged. "Go ahead, as far as I'm concerned."

"I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes."

"You already have," Enid said peaceably, and smiled at him. "No one's too happy about your being here, I'm afraid."

"That's a shame," he said, and flushed slightly, turning towards his fellows. "Right--Dorny, get started over there. I'll talk to the referee, I suppose." He turned towards the sub-referee, who had remained silent on the outskirts of the pitch, waiting for someone to return with Mr. Winkler. The sub-referee took a step back, and another.

"Uh," he said. "Mr. Winkler would have to be the one to say... Uh. Excuse me."

He turned and fled.

Algernon Longbottom turned back to Enid, eyebrows raised. "Is he always this... moody?"

Enid shrugged. "I don't know. He's new."

"I see. Well, I can assure you we're very sorry to cause you inconvenience. Do your opponents speak English?"

"Enough to be unbelievably irritating," Enid said. She smiled brightly at the smallest of the Harrier Chasers, who smiled back. He wasn't close enough to  _hear_  her, and therefore remained blissfully unaware of what she had actually  _said_.

Longbottom disguised his laugh with a cough.

"What's going on? Blodwen, don't leave the bloody Pitch--we're going over tactics as long as we're stuck here-- _who_  are  _you_?" Gwen brandished her chalkboard over her head like a club.

Longbottom took a prudent step backwards. Then his head snapped up, as though generations of Longbottoms were urging him forward into battle. He set his chin firmly, stuck out his right hand, and stepped decisively forward.

"I am Algernon Longbottom," he said.

"And what do you want?"

"He's from the dragon reserve, Gwen," Enid said.

"Well, bugger him then. I've been playing a game for nearly fifty-seven hours and these silly buggers are showing up and taking over my Quidditch pitch. I won't have it. We need to discuss tactics. Angharad, stop flipping your hair. I need to talk to you. Do you call what you were doing a few minutes ago the Hawkshead Attacking Formation?"

Angharad shrugged.

"Well, I  _don't_ ," Gwen said severely.

"Did you want to?" Angharad said.

Gwendolyn Morgan closed her eyes. Enid could hear her counting to ten.

Enid used the time to turn to Algernon Longbottom and say, "Sorry."

"Oh, it's quite all right," he said cheerfully. "She reminds me of my Quidditch captain in school--"

Gwen's eyes flew open. "Wood?" she said.

"Ackerley."

"Ravenclaw," Gwen said dismissively, and closed her eyes again.

"It's funny, that must have been years before she graduated," Enid told Longbottom. "She always knows, though."

"Were you in school with her, then?"

"Not really. Different houses."

"Gryffindor?"

" _She_  was. I was Ravenclaw."

"What year?"

"1947."

"1940."

"We just missed each other, then," Enid said, feeling unaccountably stupid.

"So we did. Were you still using the Futhark cheer?"

"Oh, dear, we got in trouble for that. We made a few... modifications. We were playing Slytherin, and, unfortunately, the Slytherin Seeker's sister was  _in_  Ancient Runes... she understood what we were screaming perfectly well, and there was nearly a riot, and six people got detention. It was all very embarrassing."

Longbottom grinned. "I can imagine what those modifications were."

"Yes, it was rather obvious, wasn't it? The logical change to make, if one wanted to be... well, Professor Perthro said, 'I am quite disappointed that you can think of nothing more elevating to say in Futhark than obscure references to scatological humor.'"

"He  _would_."

"We had this marvelous teaching assistant, though. She arrived in forty... five, I think. Yes, the start of my sixth year. Calliope Berkana. She was fantastic. She taught us the basics of Tifinagh and the Phaistos script--"

"Really? I always regretted that Perthro didn't take us far beyond Futhark."

"Well, that's it exactly. It was ever so useful to be able to use Phaistos, especially since it's so good for incantations."

He nodded. "It's especially useful for dealing with large animals. We use it regularly at the dragon reserve. They have an accelerated course for it that they give to all new keepers, but it's rather difficult to pick up on one's own."

"I can imagine," Enid said, staring at the ground and kicking at it with her foot. Gwen had resumed lecturing Angharad about tactics; all three of the Chasers were chorusing "yes, Gwen," and "no, Gwen," like a group of delinquent schoolgirls. The Harriers were muttering things in German to each other.

She felt terribly embarrassed. She had no idea why.

"What is going on here?"

Lionel Winkler burst onto the field in the same sense that a supernova bursts into existence. He was wearing a nightgown. It had glow-in-the-dark stars on it and was made of more fabric than would have been legal eight years ago, when Muggle rationing was in effect. His feet were encased in slippers made to look like fluffy bunnies. There was a good five-centimeter gap between top of slippers and bottom of nightgown, which revealed that Winkler's spindly legs were otherwise bare. This naturally gave rise to the question of what was  _under_  the nightgown.

Enid thought about that for a second and then wished that she hadn't. Oh, dear, oh, dear...

His face was as red as ever. He had a nightcap, too. It said "Priscilla" on it, and appeared to be a size too small.

Algernon Longbottom coughed discreetly. "You appear to have misappropriated your wife's night-cap, sir," he said politely.

Winkler stared at him. "Who are you?"

Longbottom stuck out his hand. "Algernon Longbottom, Dinas Emrys Dragon Reserve."

Winkler shook it, somewhat dubiously. "And you want..."

"To set up camp in the eastern stands, as I was assured we might."

"What about my nightcap?"

"It's your wife's."

"I'm not married," Winkler said blankly.

Longbottom's eyebrows shot up. Enid choked. Mari Lello grabbed her arm.

"Enid, dear, I didn't just hear him say that, did I?" she hissed.

"I'm afraid you did," Enid whispered back. "Oh, dear."

"Who's Priscilla?" Angharad asked sleepily, having just noticed Winkler's cap.

Winkler turned a bright shade of scarlet. He snatched the cap from his head, checked the label, and tried to stuff it in his pockets, only to discover that he had none. He looked around distractedly, then dropped the nightcap on the ground and jumped up and down on it a few times.

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about," he said, still scarlet.

"Well, I hope she won't want her cap back," Angharad said, eyeing the trodden remains.

"Do stop talking nonsense, Miss Jones."

"I'm not Miss Jones, I'm Miss Rees."

"It hardly matters," Winkler said, trying desperately to appear supercilious and superior.

"It does to me," Angharad objected. "I mean, she's engaged, for one thing, and I'm not. I shouldn't like to be engaged to Darren. He's dreadfully tiresome. All he ever talks about is Quidditch. And they row constantly."

"Shut up, Angharad," Gwendolyn said. "I'd like to get back to the game, if you don't mind. Can we get on with it, Winkler?"

"Yes, yes, yes," he said quickly. "Indeed. Mr. Longbottom, why don't you lot set up camp in the east stands..." He looked at the Germans, who stared back at him blankly. They all looked terribly confused, perhaps understandably. "Everything all right with you lot?" Winkler asked hopefully.

One of the Harrier Beaters started to say something.

Something screamed.

Everyone jumped. Longbottom's hand plunged into his robes and came out with his wand. Gwen's head snapped up and she started scanning the crowds. Angharad screamed and grabbed at the nearest man, who happened to be Winkler. "Tommy!" Blodwen wailed. "Oh, I should have known it wasn't safe--My poor baby!  _Tommy_!"

"What was that?" Mari said.

Angharad realized she had grabbed hold of Winkler and hastily let go again, then busied herself with fiddling with her hair and trying to look blasé. Enid rolled her eyes. Gwen continued squinting at the crowd. Algernon Longbottom tucked his wand back into his robes.

"It was an Augurey," he said calmly. "Nothing to be worried about."

Blodwen fainted.

 


	7. Why I Didn't Die When the Augurey Cried

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (7/?)

 **Author Name:**  [Tess](http://www.fictionalley.org/fictionalleypark/forums/member.php?s=&action=getinfo&userid=222)

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness  _not_?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Radolphus Andrews is named after noted author Radolphus Pittiman, who was, in fact, his godfather. While researching his biography of Uric the Oddball, Pittiman took his young namesake with him to visit a particularly fine collection of more than thirty pet Augureys. This may explain quite a lot.

Play "count the canon characters"! It's fun!

Thanks, as always, to the reviewers: Amberdulen, Calypso, Can-Can Star, Chained Dove, Elizabeth Culmer, Emily Anne, emma, Ennia, Fiat Incantatum, Finmagik, Foxglove, Karie, Kat, Kelsi, Maat, Melodylemming, Ozma, pureblood, Serena, Simon, Storm, and weird cowgirl.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER SEVEN: WHY I DIDN'T DIE WHEN THE AUGUREY CRIED**

Radolphus Andrews was a mild-mannered man. He asked for very little out of life. His wife Agnes, God rest her soul, had died well after all of the children were off at school, and the last of Radolphus' school friends had passed on soon afterwards of chronic inflammation of the liver, leaving Radolphus P. Andrews with one passion in life: the raising and training of his pet Augureys. He needed nothing more out of life than his Augureys and the occasional blue ribbon at the East Surrey Breeders' Show.

His daughter Lettice had nonetheless decided that "Papa needs an outing," and he had been brought to a Quidditch game.

His grandsons were running wild with a bunch of Welsh boys, and occasionally falling on top of him as they raced over the benches; his daughter was knitting some sort of scarf-long-underwear-sweater thing, which he would undoubtedly be forced to wear as soon as cold weather arrived; his son-in-law was pounding on the bench every time someone scored a goal.

He'd thought it would end soon. But it hadn't. He was sharing a room in the tent with his grandsons. It smelled like cabbage and he'd tripped over things when he'd gotten up in the morning. Agnes, God rest her soul, had kept the children from inconveniencing him. He had expected, somewhere in the dim and unexplored corners of his soul, that Lettice would take after her mother when it came to child-rearing. Apparently this was not the case.

When the boys were not running about, they were peppering him with questions about the war against Grindelwald and the proper way to tie a slipknot and what it had been like to be at school with Roderick Plumpton, things he knew nothing about. He'd spent The Grindelwald Years at home, mostly wearing carpet slippers, occasionally saying hello to adult offspring who seemed to be home again. One of them had been missing a leg. It was probably Geoffrey. Geoffrey was still missing a leg, anyway. It was possible that one of the others had lost one and then gotten a new one, and then Geoffrey had lost his, but this seemed needlessly complicated.

As for being at school with Roderick Plumpton, well, the only Plumpton he remembered from school was good old Squimpy. Squimpy had probably been called something other than Squimpy--Radolphus' alcohol-fogged memories of Squimpy's wedding seemed to support this conclusion--but he wasn't entirely sure of what this might have been. It could have been Roderick. Then again, it could have been Hubert.

Really, back in his day,  _real_  given names had been the least important of many concerns a young man might have. Especially since some people, like poor Ding-Dong Bell, had had real names like "Fortescue Ricardus Montmorency Paul Adamanthus Bell the Third." You just couldn't  _call_  people things like that.

Well, you  _could_ , but you were generally in the process of doing things to them in the girls' second-floor restroom involving the toilets.

So here he was at the Quidditch game, twiddling his thumbs and bored silly. Lettice, moreover, seemed to expect him to "bond" with her offspring. This "bonding" seemed  _not_  to involve Adhesive Charms, or so Lettice had said. She had also suggested that he could talk to them about "something important to you, Papa" before she had wandered off to do whatever it was that women did when they weren't with their husbands. (Radolphus suspected discussing Feminine Problems, which was all Agnes had seemed to be doing whenever he had stumbled into the kitchen in search of alcohol or the cure for Purple-Spotted Whooping Cough, which had to be refrigerated before the Augureys could safely given it.)

Radolphus P. Andrews knew about one thing. He knew about it well. He knew about it so thoroughly that he might as well have been born one. He could talk about it at great length. But nothing, as Professor Phelps had put it back in his schooldays, could prove your point so well as a demonstration.

Hence the result, which was several sub-referees clustering around their corner of the stands and trying to look menacing, and Radolphus' daughter Lettice doing a much better job without nearly as much effort.

Radolphus had not been the object of this much confusing and not altogether desirable attention since the time Aquamarine Dipstick's Antirrhinum (or "Mr. Blobbers" to his favored acquaintances) had won the blue ribbon at the East Surrey Breeders' Show.

He had, he explained innocently, been imitating the rain-call of the Northwestern Blue-Tinted Augurey.

Lettice glared at him; the sub-referees scratched their heads and looked confused; Hippolytus Morgan, seeing his chance of getting hold of a violator of the Magical Animal Import Regulation of 1903 slipping out of his hands, glowered and slunk off.

"We'll keep him in the tent," Lettice snapped.

"Erm..."

"I can do it again if you didn't get a good listen," Radolphus offered, cupping his hands around his mouth.

The sub-referee fled.

"Go to the tent, Papa."

"It smells like cabbages."

"Go to the  _tent_ , Papa."

Radolphus went to the tent with what Lettice would later, in retrospect, decide had been a worrisome degree of complaisance.

 

* * *

Alberich Bastnagel's Quidditch career had begun early: at the age of seven, he had borrowed his uncle's broom and jumped off the roof of Heidelberg Castle. Much to the horror of all onlookers, he had survived the drop and then used the broom to dive-bomb his younger sisters. (He had four.) When Alberich was finally gotten down, his uncle Berthold had kept yelling, "The boy's a natural. Would you look at that?" and his mother had kept yelling, "Alberich, my Alberich, are you alive?" and his sisters had just plain kept yelling.

His propensity for bizarre stunts had only worsened with time. He was the sort of boy whose name would still be legendary at Durmstrang fifty years later. Who else would have dared to steal a toilet seat from the faculty bathroom? Even had there been two such youths, only Bastnagel would have found a way to run it up the flagpole afterwards. The Headmaster and Herr Professor Blum had been so thrilled at Bastnagel's imminent departure that they had spontaneously performed a Tyrolean folk dance in the middle of the faculty lunch room. (Herr Professor Dolbanoff, no fool, had taken pictures and consequently no longer had to teach first-year Transfiguration.)

Alberich's first love had been Klara Schmidt, who had concussed him with a Bludger during a second-year practice match. In pursuit of his grand passions, he had been slapped, pinched, kicked, attacked by angry fiances, yelled at, and Transfigured into a member of the mallard family.

He was nonetheless a romantic at heart.

He bore the distinction of being the only man in the League to have proposed marriage to Adelheid von Roethlisberger. "Do not make me harm you," she had replied. He'd pretended to have a heart attack. The subterfuge had been discovered when von Roethlisberger had kicked him in the head; he had said "Ow."

"It would be a wonderful thing to die for love," he said out loud.

Rudolf Brand grunted.

"The Augurey's cry. We resume the game. Alas! she has been so alarmed that she falls from her broom. I rush to save her, but in rescuing her, I myself--"

"I have to take my wife home," Hartwig Falck said. "It's not safe--not with the Augurey."

"All it foretells is rain," Dietrich Diffenderffer said.

Falck scowled. This amount of sophistication was probably, Rudolf thought, entirely beyond him, whereas Diffenderffer had spent far too many years in Berlin at a Muggle "university," studying God-only-knew-what, and now fancied himself intelligent because he knew about particle matter generational conflicts or something like that and had worked under some Muggle named Max Planck. Dumb as a post and too smart for his own good; what a team he had!

He snuck a peek at the Harpies again to make sure that the woman who had fainted was still a Chaser, and not the Keeper or the Seeker. No. Still a Chaser. One less grim-faced blond woman to wave the Quaffle in his face was barely an improvement. They could manage a good three hours of play before it was time for the reserves.

"I need to take Hati home," Falck insisted. "She's very sensitive. She will be most distressed by this..."

"Sensitive? Who is sensitive?" Karl Klopsch blundered into the conversation, looking hopeful. Sensitive girls, he had explained at great length during long and dull locker-room conversations, were easier to get into bed than the normal kind. Perhaps this was because they were more easily fooled by poorly-thought-out stories about dying grandparents, or perhaps it was because they didn't require their boyfriends to be able to use words of more than two syllables with any degree of fluency; the whole business had fallen into the category of "things Rudolf doesn't want to know about his teammates."

"Hartwig's wife," Diffenderffer explained helpfully, and Rudolf remembered, too late, that Diffenderffer was the only other person on the team--besides Alberich--not involved in what some enterprising young reporter for the  _Heidelberg Homing Owl_  had called "the Chaser-Beater war."

It had involved a blonde, or possibly a brunette. Details had long since been forgotten, but all it required was a mention of a female and Klopsch, who had been beaten out by Beater Gottschalk Einbund for the blonde, or brunette, or redhead (or was it the other way around? Both of them had the grooming habits of orangutans, so Rudolf didn't know what to think, since any girl with an ounce of brains would have thrown both of them over to date pond scum, much less something with the right number of arms), would go, as the English so colorfully put it, mental.

"Sensitive?" Klopsch sneered. Falck's hands clenched in fists at his side. "Sensitive? Mrs. Falck,  _sensitive_?"

He had really, Rudolf thought, gotten the point across with the first sneer. To continue was simply demonstrating, once again, that a good Chaser  _didn't_  need to have more brain cells than an amoeba.

Of course, Klopsch exemplified that rule to begin with.

Klopsch and Falck eyed each other for a minute. Then Klopsch threw a punch.

"Stop it!" Diffenderffer said, right on cue. "Violence solves nothing, nothing!"

"It is only in particle matter accelerator thingies that the fate of the world can be solved," Alberich Bastnagel called cheerfully.

Rudolf stared at him. "Diffenderffer never said that."

"But it's the sort of thing he would!" Alberich said happily.

Diffenderffer, who was being sat on by Gottschalk Einbund, would undoubtedly have disagreed, had he been able to use his vocal cords.

"Stop it at once!" Rudolf bellowed, to no avail: the third and final Chaser came rushing to his partners' aid. Rudolf ducked a wild punch from Klopsch and stepped hastily away as Klopsch and Falck fell to the ground in a clawing, punching frenzy.

The fair-haired dragon-keeper (if that was indeed what he was: he looked far too thin and unburnt to be a dragon-keeper, in Rudolf's opinion) had shaken off one of the smaller Harpies--a pretty one, Rudolf thought, not the grim-faced blondes--and was stalking over with his wand out.

"Stop--parakeet--small pair of boots," the dragon-keeper snapped in heavily-accented German.

Rudolf blinked.

"Oh, bugger," the dragon-keeper said in English. Silver cords shot out of his wand, binding Klopsch so thoroughly that he couldn't move.

Falck, of course, didn't stop whaling on his opponent. The dragon-keeper swore and dove for him. Rudolf helped.

It was true what they said, he idly reflected, as he pushed his Beater's head into the dirt and the dragon-keeper pinned Hartwig's wrists behind his back, straddling his knees and muttering under his breath as he waved his wand around. You hadn't really lived until you'd had to restrain a two-hundred-pound Beater from killing one of your teammates.

They were definitely going on suspension as soon as this game was over. All of them.  _All_  of them, dammit.

Kriebl, the third Chaser, had managed to pull Einbund off of Diffenderffer, and now the two men were slugging each other with what the dragon-keeper, somewhat distractedly, was calling "good old Marquis of Queensbury rules." Rudolf had no idea what that meant, but since it seemed to involve punching rather than eye-gouging, he was all for it.

Falck made a desperate thrash for freedom, nearly shaking the dragon-keeper off. Rudolf smacked his nose with two fingers, very sharply, as though he were disciplining a disobedient puppy.

Marquis of Queensbury rules went down the drain as Einbund managed to kick Kriebl's feet out from under him. Like a redwood falling in a deserted forest, Kriebl crashed slowly down, down, down, dragging Einbund with him, knocking the dragon-keeper into Rudolf along the way, knocking Rudolf onto Einbund's head, and landing all of them on top of a very unhappy Karl Klopsch. Alberich let out a wild whoop and flung himself into the fray.

Bugger, Rudolf thought, was probably the right word for this sort of a situation.

Then someone slugged him.

 

* * *

Morpheus Price was a merry old bastard. He was actually humming as he came trotting down to see to the injured. "Let's see what we have. Ooh, that looks like it's a nasty sprain... that might be broken, sir, don't try to stand up..."

Lionel Winkler had summoned one of his underlings to bring him a stool. Now he was sitting on it, his face buried in his hands, the picture of a distraught banker on Black Tuesday... except for the nightshirt and the slipper-clad feet, which made him look more like a recalcitrant six-year-old.

Gwendolyn glanced around the field, illuminated by thousands of lanterns. Everything was black and white in the poor lighting. Bronwyn was kneeling by her sister's side, waving smelling salts under her nose. Enid was poking with a cloth at a nasty-looking cut on the dragon-keeper's left temple and lecturing him in serious tones. Glynnis had chosen to play Florence Nightingale and was trailing Price with an armload of bandages and a pious expression better suited to St. Catherine of Siena.

Gwendolyn suppressed an urge to kick her.

Angharad was twirling her hair and looking uneasy. Mari Lello was glaring at the Germans as though she hoped to personally render one of them unable to sire children at some future point during the game.

Anger was good. It cheered Gwen up a bit.

She frowned at St. Glynnis again, who responded with a smirk.

And the Harriers were all  _distinctly_  under the weather, which would be useful soon, even if they only did have a few hours to go before they switched over to the reserves again.

All in all, she decided, it had gone well. As well as one could expect, anyway.

Well, it could have been much  _worse._

 


	8. Physics and Foul Play

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (8/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness [i]not[/i]?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Thanks to everyone who's reviewed since last chapter: A.J. Hall, Alenxa, Ariana Deralte, Calypso, Chained Dove, Emily Anne, Ennia, Fiat Incantatum, Medrelina the Weird, Melodylemming, PeanutGallery, RascalMagic, Serena, Storm, and TiPster.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER EIGHT: PHYSICS AND FOUL PLAY**

The English doctor was poking at all of them.

"We've been very foolish," Rudolf said glumly. The blasted women would probably get a penalty shot out of this. Damn them. " _Especially_  Klopsch," he added. His nose still hurt.

"It was fun, though," Alberich said, grinning.

"No, Alberich, not really."

"Yes, my captain, really."

Rudolf looked at Alberich. Alberich smiled winsomely. Rudolf turned to Diffenderffer.

"He was the sort of boy who jumped off Heidelberg Castle with a broomstick for fun," Rudolf said wearily. Diffenderffer looked at him.

"What, Alberich?"

"Yes. Just jumped off the high tower and didn't bother straddling his broomstick till he was halfway to the ground."

"Should I have heard of that?"

" _Everyone_  in Heidelberg heard about that," Rudolf said, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the throbbing that had begun in his head. "You'd have heard of it if you weren't off in wherever--"

"Berlin," Diffenderffer said indignantly.

"Right. Berlin."

"I was studying."

"Studying what? Nothing  _useful_."

"Physics! It's  _very_  useful!"

"My aunt thought they ought to have sent the boy off to Azkaban," Rudolf said.

"Good for you they didn't," Alberich said. Rudolf knew, without looking, that he was grinning. "You need the best. I  _am_  the best."

"When you're not trying to castrate your teammates," Diffenderffer said.

"I only kicked him!"

"And ground your foot into his groin."

"Accidental."

"You're wearing  _boots_."

Rudolf opened his eyes in time to see Alberich shrug.

"Hati's going to have you for lunch," Diffenderffer said, his tone expressing a morbid satisfaction in the idea.

"Dinner, more likely," Alberich said. "The sun's already setting."

Rudolf sighed heavily. Alberich patted his shoulder.

"Cheer up, my captain!"

"Alberich, if you call me 'my captain' one more time--"

"Did I tell you I'm in love with the British Seeker?"

"Far too often."

"I think Gottschalk's broken his arm," Diffenderffer said.

Rudolf groaned.

"We'll be getting the reserves soon," Diffenderffer said optimistically.

"Three hours," Rudolf said.

"That long?"

"Yes."

"Bugger."

"Yes."

 

* * *

"It was dreadfully amusing the way that Chaser slugged his captain like that," Enid said hopefully.

"Shut up and get on your brooms," Gwen said.

"We'll take what amusement we can get at this stage," Mari said, and waved to the stands.

"Don't bother, it's dark, they can't see you," Gwen snapped. "Get on your bloody brooms before I hit you."

"Right ho," Enid said brightly.

"'Right ho'?" Mari said. "Did I hear that right? 'Right ho'? That blithering English dragon-keeper's rubbing off on you."

Glynnis snickered.

"Shut up," Enid snapped, and zoomed into the air. Lionel Winkler, who had managed to find some decent robes, eyed her approvingly.

"That's the spirit, Miss Lello!"

"Davies!" Enid snarled. Most of the Germans were already in the air. Gwen soared over to the goalposts without even bothering to check with Winkler.

"Miss Morgan!" he called. She didn't turn. "Miss Morgan! You need to--I need to supervise the game effectively--Miss Morgan!"

"She's over by the goalposts, get started," Glynnis snapped, soaring up next to Enid.

"Erm..." Winkler began looking around. "Why's that German got his hand in a sling?"

"His arm's broken!" Mari shouted gleefully. Enid would have kicked her if they'd been on the ground; the smallest Chaser's English was certainly good enough to understand that, and indeed he was giving Mari a very hurt look.

The injured German, luckily, was one of the gorilla Beaters, and seemed oblivious to everything in the world that didn't involve his arm, his partner, his broomstick, or the Bludgers.

There was an obscene joke in that somewhere, Enid was sure.

"All right, all right. Players... ready... Mr. Brand, just go over to your bloody goalposts, there's a good boy... All right! Go!"

Mari knocked him over in her haste to get to the Bludgers before the Germans did.

She was, however, successful.

She sent one of the Bludgers to Enid, who promptly bashed it at the German Seeker. "I adore you, my darling!" Glynnis shouted, zooming off in search of the Snitch, the space in her wake for once Bastnagel-free.

Ah, good times. And less than three hours till the reserves came on. Enid began to hum the Ravenclaw fight song under her breath.

 

* * *

The chaps had all found it highly amusing, of course. Dorny was laughing so hard he looked about to be sick. Discipline was useless. When you spend several years in small huts playing cards with people and occasionally aiming spells at large and unhappy dragons with them, it becomes difficult to get them to treat you with any respect.

The rest of the lads had arrived with the remainder of their equipment. None of them were  _doing_  anything, of course--unless watching the Quidditch players through their Omniculars counted.

Algernon made shooing motions at Parker and Mitchell, both of whom seemed more interested in the Chasers than drawing runic circles on the grass. The shooing motions didn't work.

Ah, well then. Time for Plan B.

"Get  _off_  it, you wankers!" he bellowed.

They both jumped.

Language was, as old Professor Perthro had always said, an invaluable tool.

Parker flushed and headed off to join Llevelys and Dorny in covering the Runic Resonance Dragon Attraction Device with a tarp. No point in taking chances with rain, and if the dragon did show up, they'd be too busy trying to stun it to worry about maintaining a waterproofing spell.

This didn't explain why they actually needed the Thing  _here_. Algernon suspected it came down to "the Reserve's spent several thousand pounds on it and we must seem modern." He and Siraly Lazslo (or, in English, Lazslo Siraly), the Reserve's Horntail expert and unofficial engineer (if it had wiggly bits, Lazslo had his wand out and was poking at it the minute it was dropped on Dinas Emrys soil), had poked about the Thing for a good three hours and still hadn't been able to figure out what it did.

Supposedly it called dragons using "a complex and modernized system of runes and runic resonance coordinated with the magical flux of your standard ley-line, with slight modifications to the orbiting aura climactic adjuster." This made no sense even after you'd looked up all the terminology.

Lazslo had simply patted the thing affectionately and crooned, "But what pretty paint she has on her, no?" This seemed about the best thing they were going to get out of the Thing's presence.

Nonetheless, as they had been ordered, they had covered it with a tarp, and should the dragon show up, they would whip it out and try and look as though they were finding it useful.

Mitchell shook his head.

"It's not fair," he said. "Angharad Rees. Prettiest girl in the league. You  _met_  her."

"She didn't strike me as all that pretty," Algernon said, before he'd thought about it. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Ponytail. The intelligence of a carp, or perhaps a lesser species of small songbird.

Mitchell drew in his breath sharply, staring at Algernon as though he'd just suggested capturing and torturing small children for sport. Then he shook his head again and jogged off toward the Thing.

Algernon glanced back at the field in time to see Miss Davies send a Bludger straight into the German Seeker's left shoulder. He smiled, and went to join his comrades.

 

* * *

The Harpies had scored two more goals, the Harriers one; they were as close to a tie as they ever had been, and still no sign of the Snitch. Glynnis was sweeping the field in zig-zags, closely tailed, as ever, by Alberich Bastnagel. Bronwyn and Blodwen had managed to get ahold of the Quaffle; Angharad fell out of formation to avoid a Bludger, and Enid Davies hurriedly flew over to send it pelting back towards Beater Gottschalk Einbund. He immediately sent it towards Glynnis; Enid had to zoom over and try to intercept it, and as she was doing so and trying to figure out who to send it at next, she heard a loud commotion from the stands. She looked around, trying to see what it was all about.

One of the German Chasers had locked broom handles with Bronwyn, who was shrieking imprecations at him that would have made a less-hardened man blush. They were flying erratically, understandably. Oh,  _bugger._

"Dear God, the maniac is blurting!" Idris Baulch wailed from the announcer's booth. "Kick him, Miss Jones!  _Kick him_!"

"Vat? Vat?" Adelheid von Roethlisberger's voice sounded confused, but she quickly gained confidence: "Stop that at once! You vill give them a penalty shot! Stop it! Stop it now! I am  _varning_  you, Klopsch!"

Enid stopped mid-swing, and hurriedly began batting the Bludger back and forth while she tried to figure out how the  _hell_  she could send it at Klopsch without hitting Bronwyn... Bronwyn still had the Quaffle, bless her heart, and she was screaming obscenities like no one's business as Glynnis, her hair by now completely fallen out of its bun and streaming behind her, making her look like a curly-haired Goddess of Vengeance, bore down on the hapless pair of Chasers, her eyes as grim as Death and her lips curled in an unpleasant-looking sneer. Blodwen and Angharad were zooming up the field as well, and Gwen, over by the goalposts, was bellowing for a referee.

"Treachery!" Idris Baulch howled. "Betrayal and treachery! Kick him, Miss Jones! Kick him!"

"I can't kick him, you bloody idiot," Bronwyn howled. "I'm on a bloody  _broomstick_!"

Mari sent the other Bludger straight at the remaining Germans, who were watching Klopsch with some dismay as their captain, all but frothing at the mouth, shrieked something about "idiots!" and "penalty shot!"

"They vill get a penalty shot! Stop him! Someone stop him! You are an idiot, Klopsch, an idiot..." Von Roethlisberger's tirade degenerated into incomprehensible, furious-sounding German.

"Stop nattering around and hit the damn Bludger, Enid!" Mari shouted.

"I'm calculating!" Enid shouted back, her eyes still glued to Bronwyn and Klopsch. Glynnis cut across their path, but veered abruptly upwards when it became clear that Bronwyn would be the first to crash; she simply couldn't hinder Klopsch without hindering Bronwyn as well.

Baulch's commentary was by now simply low, despairing moans. If she hit it now, it would hit Klopsch, but Bronwyn if he ducked, which he might, and she didn't want to risk that. Where the hell was Winkler? Wasn't it the referee's job to stop this? Mari was bellowing that she should get her head out of her arse and just hit the damn Bludger. Now--no, almost--let them get a few more meters--there!

She hit the Bludger with a resounding thwack. It soared in a perfect, sweeping arc, past the other Germans, who were shouting instructions at Klopsch in German, past Glynnis, who looked about ready to start laying about with anything to hand, past an irate Mari, and hit Klopsch in the side.

He leaned over, gasping, to clutch at his side, and with a triumphant howl Bronwyn had pulled her broomstick handle straight up, zooming straight up in the air and then coming to a graceful halt several meters above Klopsch's head. He, on the other hand, was bound directly for a collision with the ground.

Blodwen, nearly in tears, flew straight to her sister and started hugging her--no mean feat, on broomstick. Mari gave Enid the thumbs-up sign and shouted, "Bloody Ravenclaw, I should have known!" Glynnis bent low over her broomstick and dove straight for the clustered, anxious German Chasers and Beaters. They wisely scattered before her advance. And Winkler  _finally_  blew his bloody whistle.

"Penalty shot to the Harpies!" he shouted. "Penalty shot to the Harpies. Halt! Yes! Penalty shot to the Harpies!"

"I really can't think why you aren't married, Miss Davies," Baulch said happily. "I really can't."

Why, Enid thought, was it illegal to send Bludgers at the announcers' box? Ah well, only a few hours left before the reserves came on.

At this point, she was hoping that the game would be over before she turned twenty-five.

It would be in December, and she absolutely  _despised_  playing Quidditch in the snow.

 

* * *

"Wake up, sugar."

"What? 'S the middle of the night."

"No, Enid, it's six in the morning."

"Glynnis, if you don't go away, I am going to stab you with my--" Enid looked around, bleary-eyed, for something suitable. Finally she gave up and just stabbed out blindly with one hand. She found something and brandished it.

"You're going to have to sharpen that if you plan to kill me with it," Glynnis said, her tone the very model of nursery-school-teacher reasonableness. Enid sat up in bed, examined what was in her hand, then threw it at Glynnis.

Glynnis caught it. She examined it.

"It's a very nice teddy bear," she said. "A bit blue for my taste."

"It was a present from my second cousin," Enid said wretchedly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pulling her nightgown down to cover her knees.

"He has horrible taste."

" _She_  is six. She thought it would be lucky. I've promised to bring it back safely. In the name of God, don't hurt it!"

Glynnis put the bear down on Enid's pillow and patted it reassuringly. "There, there," she said.

Enid flopped on her back. Her nightgown rode up above her knees. Oh, well. It was only Glynnis. She was too tired to sit upright. "What time did you say it was?"

"Six."

"Dear God."

"Come on, get up. Gwen would have come to get you herself, but she's busy rousting Mari out of the Lello compound and I fear she's going to have to detach sticky-fingered adoring preadolescent boys from her person before she extract Mari. I volunteered. Cheer up. She'd have dumped a bucket of water on you by now."

"That's standard in the Gryffindor dorms, is it?"

Glynnis thought about it for a minute. "When it's Gwen and Quidditch practice, yes," she said. "Now get up. The sooner we get to Gwen's tent and look attentive while she declaims on the subject of Quidditch tactics, the sooner she'll let us have breakfast."

"We're not allowed to have breakfast?"

"Not unless you've got any granola bars about. You haven't, have you?"

Enid sighed and sat up again. "Let me get dressed first," she said.

"You  _have_?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Only bizarre Ravenclaw people, Enid. Where did you say these were?"

"Let me get  _dressed_  first."

"I can eat while you dress," Glynnis said hopefully.

"Get out of my room, Glynnis!"

"Can I search your kitchen? You won't mind, will you? I haven't eaten in twelve hours and I get nippy when all I have is coffee."

"'Nippy'? Is that a word?" she called to Glynnis' retreating back. No reply.

From the kitchen, something broke.

"Whoops," Glynnis called.

Enid started digging around for her Quidditch robes and a clean pair of underwear. She shouldn't have admitted to the granola bars. She really shouldn't.

Sometimes being the sensible one was more than she could stand.

 


	9. Owls and Oddments

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (9/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Thank you to everyone who's reviewed: Fiat Incantatum, Karie, Melodylemming, PeanutGallery, selena_miller, Serena, and Storm.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER NINE: OWLS AND ODDMENTS**

It was amazing, Gwendolyn Morgan thought happily, how much discipline you could get out of people when you woke them at six in the morning to discuss tactics. An hour of discussion, followed by half an hour of practice, half an hour of breakfast and further discussion, and an hour of free time, did  _wonders_  for improving concentration. By 9 AM the Harpies were up and ready to go.

Gwen beamed proudly as Lionel Winkler beckoned them all out onto the Quidditch pitch. The girls were wide awake, while the Germans were looking  _distinctly_  sleepy-eyed and unhappy, and Bastnagel, the Seeker, was muttering something about coffee.

She would keep this in mind for future matches.

Up in the announcer's booth, Idris Baulch was saying something about "go-get-'em Welsh spirit showing through," in between yawns.

"Vat?" Adelheid von Roethlisberger snapped. "Vat?"

"They were up at six in the morning practicing. Kudos to you, Miss Morgan! I could never have managed it," he called. Mari Lello nudged Enid Davies; they both beamed at the announcer's booth. Enid waved.

"Vat? Did you hear that, Brand? They are tired! They have long been up! They are tired! Kill them! Kill them!"

"They're not tired, they're well-exercised," Baulch said testily.

"Ha! Vell-exercised like a dead moose! Kill them!"

"I don't think I like her," Enid said.

"I don't get think anyone does," Glynnis said, glaring at Bastnagel, who was making puppy-dog eyes at her despite not having shaven. "No one likes  _you_ , either, you know."

Bastnagel beamed.

"He's trying to throw you off-balance," Gwen said automatically.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about? He's trying to blow kisses at me!"

"All right," Winkler said, as the last Harrier Beater more or less staggered (could one do that on broomstick?) towards them, his broom moving jerkily in the air. "That's everyone. It _is_  nine o'clock, you know, you all ought to be awake... Ready, and!" He blew his whistle. Gwen soared back towards the goalposts at top speed. No one followed her. She turned to face the pitch.

Mari and Enid had made a hell-bent dash for the Bludgers, and were calmly passing them back and forth as though the Germans weren't even there. Since the German Beaters were hovering fifty feet in the air, blinking sleepily and not doing much of anything, it was a fairly safe maneuver.

Angharad had grabbed the Quaffle and was zooming determinedly towards the goalposts.

Blodwen was mooning about the sidelines staring at what was probably her husband and infant (she was the only one who had actually been  _awake_  at six in the morning when Gwen had woken them up, and she'd been very recalcitrant about being separated from Tommy). Gwen started shrieking at her.

She looked over, confused, then looked back at the German goals, where Angharad and Brand were playing a game of "broomstick tag": he was trying to grab the Quaffle and she just kept flying out of reach. He didn't dare venture too far from the goals, for fear that Blodwen would show up or Bronwyn would stop buzzing the Harrier Seeker.

"Oh," Blodwen called, "right!" and went to join Angharad.

Bronwyn and Glynnis had fought during practice, and Bronwyn was clearly feeling bad about it, since she was now soaring to a position twenty feet above Seeker Bastnagel's head, and then zooming straight down at top speed. Even Bastnagel, whom Gwen had begun to think was unflappable, could not but be affected by this.

Entertaining though Bronwyn might be finding it, she really shouldn't... though on the other hand it showed more team spirit than Gwendolyn would have expected, especially where Glynnis was concerned. She ought to encourage the two of them to bond. Then again, just showing willingness to help Glynnis out showed that Bronwyn had the right spirit, which was what really mattered, wasn't it?

And for God's sake what good would bonding do if the Harriers got the Quaffle?

"Bronwyn, get your arse over to the goals and give Angharad a hand!" she bellowed.

Not long after Bronwyn obeyed, Harrier Chasers finally figured something was up. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be able to figure out  _what_  was up: First one, then two, then three, pulled their broomsticks into gear and flew straight for Gwen.

She stayed where she was. If intimidation was their game, she wasn't falling for it. Why should she, anyway, when they didn't have the bloody Quaffle?

Diffenderffer, the small one, pulled up short just before hitting her. He looked at her. She looked at him. The other two stopped just past him. One of them started yelling something at him in German.

"Er," Diffenderffer said.

Gwen looked at him. She raised her eyebrows. The crowd cheered wildly. So the girls had finally gotten the Quaffle in the goal. The two big Chasers turned. One of them said something in German; the sentence contained the words "Dietrich" and "Quaffle," and Gwen was willing to bet that the middle went something like "they have the Quaffle over there, Dietrich, you moron."

"Good-bye," Diffenderffer said formally, and soared away after his teammates.

Gwen shook her head. Odd. Very odd.

 

* * *

Angharad Rees' third cousin Elizabeth was best described, tactfully, as plain. She'd somehow had the tremendous good (or bad, according to some) fortune to become engaged to Angharad's brother, who was best described, tactfully, as stupid.

She adored children. She wanted nothing more than to have lots and lots of the little darlings as soon as she was married, she would say, brandishing her engagement ring.

Unfortunately, unlike many young women who make this proclamation, Elizabeth actually  _meant_  it.

She'd found Mrs. Lello to be a somewhat unenthusiastic supporter of these ideals. Having raised, more or less, seven children, Modron Lello had little interest in Diamanta Diggory's Darling Theories Of Child Raising or the newest way to begin your little tyke on Arithmancy without using a wand. She felt that as long as her children weren't a) in life-threatening danger or b) getting caught doing anything illegal, they could be let alone. Any attempts to rein in her six sons from roaming the Quidditch pitch would probably be met with stern resistance on their parts, and she for one didn't care to bother.

Elizabeth had then essayed this topic on Hippolytus Morgan, but he had replied with, "Back in 1944, Peterson and I were working on a top-secret project, which was scuttled by the appearance of mooncalves in the testing area. Mooncalves! Honestly! We could have undermined Grindelwald's magical defenses, if it hadn't been for those blasted mooncalves," and she had edged away before he'd had a chance to finish. Last she looked, he had been addressing his remarks to an advertisement postered on the side of the box.

The third-year Gryffindor girls had listened with polite uninterested smiles, and Elizabeth, reminded of the girls she had gone to school with (the bane of seven years of her life), had beat a hasty retreat before they could start pulling her hair.

Happily for Elizabeth, Cybele Weasley had given up on  _Jane Eyre_  at 8:30 that morning, and soon came waddling over to watch the game, younger offspring in tow. Arthur, no fool, hastily asked for and received dispensation to fetch  _Our Muggles, Ourselves_ , from the tent. He returned to find Elizabeth and his mother in a spirited debate on the meaning of Elaine's dirt-eating tendencies.

He smirked at his younger sister and resumed his reading.

 

* * *

An owl circled the field a few times before swooping down to the dragon-keepers' little enclave. A bunch of the boys were playing cards; Algernon had bowed out as soon as they'd taken the stakes beyond Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans.

Card games were all logic, of course, but both Mitchell and Dorny cheated outrageously, and Llevelys had a poker face that even his mother couldn't read.

"News from headquarters?" Parker said hopefully, as the owl landed on the overturned crate they'd been using for a card table. Dorny stood up, swearing, as the owl began to waddle across the crate, scattering Dorny's cards en route.

Algernon sighed. "No, Parker, I fear not."

"Perhaps they've caught the dragon," Parker continued, oblivious.

"It's another one of Mitchell's sodding girlfriends," Dorny snapped, as the owl sidled towards Mitchell and blinked its lids becomingly. Very unsettling, Algernon thought. The owl was probably female. Mitchell possessed an attraction for the female sex which no one with a Y chromosome could understand.

On Mitchell's left, Llevelys suddenly groaned and jumped to his feet before stumbling out behind the stands. He'd probably eaten something that disagreed with him. Llevelys could get food poisoning from dry toast.

"Which one is it today?" Dorny said.

Mitchell frowned as he set his hand of cards face-down on the crate and reached for the owl. "Janine--it's a Tuesday, isn't it? But this looks like Cindy's owl."

"Is Cindy the blonde?" Parker asked. Parker had a "thing" for blondes, although what that thing was, Algernon had not cared to inquire. Parker was what was tactfully described as "unique," and more bluntly as "a spotty-faced dragon-obsessed git with no social skills." What he could possibly possess that a blonde would find of interest, except a collection of burned clothing and shirts with suspicious smells about them, was therefore open to question.

This was one area Algernon's logical Ravenclaw brain preferred  _not_  to question.

"No, Julia's the blonde," Mitchell said, extracting the note from the owl's collar. "Unless you're thinking of Claire."

"Julia's the dishwater blonde, Claire's the one with the dreadful beehive, and Emma's the one with the platinum hair," Dorny supplied, picking up Mitchell's discarded hand and scowling at the cards. "Bugger, you'd've had me, you bastard."

"Emma," Mitchell mused. "I'd almost forgot about Emma. She hasn't written in a while, has she?"

"She was the only one who didn't break, scream, and run at the sight of dragons," Algernon said fervently. "Whatever happened to her?"

"I didn't think you fancied blondes," Parker said.

"I  _don't_ fancy blondes," Algernon said, forbearing to mention that even if he  _did_ , he certainly wouldn't have fancied Emma, who had looked fully capable of taking on a half-dozen clutching dragons armed with nothing but her teeth.

"No, I tell a lie, it is from headquarters," Mitchell said, and handed the note to Algernon, who read it.

"What did happen to Emma, then?" Parker persisted.

"Oh, she got married or fell off a boat or something. You know." Mitchell shrugged. "She stopped writing. You know what girls are like."

The only girls whom Parker knew "were like" were, Algernon thought, either related to him by such close ties of blood that their marriage would be forbidden in small, inbred Appalachian mountain communities, or contained only, in all their airbrushed glory, within the pages of  _William's Witches, The Magazine For the Discriminating Wizard._  (Parker thought  _Playwizard_  was an affront to the decency of womankind, and had said so to girls with entirely too much vehemence. The proper route, of course, was to pretend that you'd never even  _heard_  of the thing. But Parker, being Parker, simply could not figure this out.) Nonetheless Parker merely nodded knowingly at the incomprehensible disappearance of platinum-blonde Emma.

Algernon sighed. "Rusty MacFusty's back from France, they're sending him up as soon as the hangover cure takes effect."

"How much do you think he drank this time?" Mitchell said.

"Not the whole pub again, surely," Algernon said doubtfully. Rusty MacFusty's alcohol capacity, while formidable, surely extended to  _that_  degree of debauchery only once every five years or so.

"Ha! I'd say a  _pint_ ," Dorny said.

"A  _pint_?  _Rusty_?"

"If he hadn't drunk the whole cask he'd think it a wasted evening!" one of the spotty-faced new boys added from the fringes of the gathering.

Good to know that they had their priorities in order. Rusty's alcohol capacity, yes; how to brush a dragon's teeth or move a clutching mother (or "dam"), no.

"And he's bringing Laszlo," Algernon added. Best to slip that in now while they were distracted.

"The Hairy Hungarian?"

Bugger. It hadn't worked.

"He's not really all  _that_  hairy, Jack," Algernon said disparagingly. Laszlo and Dorny had gotten off to a very bad start two years ago, when Laszlo had first arrived at the Reserve. His only English then had consisted of "I am hungry," "I need haircut," and "Your mother? Pah! I spit on your mother."

"Humph," Dorny said, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I'd like him to try spitting on  _my_  mother, the damned idiot bastard."

"Dorny!"

"Just clearing my throat," Dorny said.

"Not a bloody  _pint_ ," Parker said, still stuck on the alcohol conundrum. "Not  _Rusty_."

"Whereas the Hairy Hungarian needs about three drops before he's suitably hammered," Dorny said.

"Some people work best while they're inebriated," Algernon said stiffly. This was not, in fact, the case with Laszlo--the only thing  _he_  could manage while inebriated was twenty-seven verses of a song in Hungarian that sounded distinctly vulgar, interspersed with the odd belch--but he felt the need to defend a co-worker in front of the new boys.

"That depends on whether you want to know about what Bertha the barmaid did with Hans the travelling salesman--"

"Jack!"

At least one of the new boys had been a graduate of Hogwarts for something less than six months. He lived at home. His mother sent him to work every day with a clean handkerchief, which was usually burnt to a crisp by the end of the day. He had pigtailed siblings (female, one assumed) still at Hogwarts. Should it become known that he had learned what Bertha the barmaid did with Hans the travelling salesman on Algernon's shift, there would be Trouble with the Higher-Ups and probably a week or two of dung-shoveling duty. Algernon was having none of it.

"Well, at least he can work the whatsit," Mitchell said, casting a disparaging look at the whatsit.

" _I_  can work the bloody whatsit!" Dorny said, outraged.

"You  _broke_  the bloody whatsit," Mitchell retorted.

"I did not break it!"

"Little bits fell out the side, you were worried that Algie'd see you and you--Oh."

"Put the bits back, Jack," Algernon said.

"That rhymed!" Parker said happily.

"Wouldn't he have shoved them back in the side?" one of the new boys said.

"Yeah!" Dorny said, suddenly shifty-eyed and inarticulate.

"No, he would not have," Algernon said. "I have worked with this man for nearly half-a-dozen years, and the last thing he would do is shove them back where they belong. He would put them in his pocket. Are they in your pocket, Jack?"

"No," Dorny said, staring at the ground.

"If I were to empty your pockets, Jack, would I find little bits and pieces of the Thing in your pockets mixed in with all the little bits of string and miscellaneous minutia?"

"No?" Dorny suggested.

"Do I have to tell you to empty your pockets, Jack?"

Dorny sighed and began rooting around in his pockets. He produced the pieces. What they did was a mystery to Algernon, who dumped them in a convenient box protruding from one of the Thing's sides.

Well, Laszlo would figure it out. He usually did.

Keeping Dorny from killing him as he heartily boomed, "Ah, yes, I see what the thing which you have done wrong is. How stupid a thing it was! Indeed, it is the thing that can be done only by people whose mothers--pah! I spit on their mothers"--now  _that_  would be a challenge.

 

* * *

One of the Lello boys had gotten a splinter. An uneasy truce had been called so that Susan Griffiths could extract it with tweezers. She was good at it, and anything was better than appealing to adults. Her tongue was protruding slightly from her mouth as she poked at it.

The Lello boy was white-faced but calm. He wasn't Owen, the youngest, or Hagvan, the jerk; Emily Fawcett didn't know what the other options were.

Even Hagvan had shut up in honor of the occasion. She smirked at him.

"Don't do that," Gwyneth said, without looking up from her perusal of the game.

Hagvan smirked.

"You're a right bastard, do you know that?" Emily said mildly, without any particular anger. It was just a fact.

"Yes," Hagvan said.

The wounded Lello gasped as Susan poked at something.

"Damn," Susan said. "Someone give me a hand here--Jen or someone."

"Blood makes me faint," Jen said instantly.

"Well,  _someone_ ," Susan said.

Emily sighed. Her friends had visited the Fawcett household. Attempting to claim that blood made her faint was, under those circumstances, impossible.

"All right, all right," she said, and made her way over.

"Hold his hand steady," Susan instructed.

Emily regarded the proffered hand for a minute. There was a pink patch around the splinter where Susan had cleaned it before beginning her extraction attempt. The rest of the hand was a sort of dingy brownish color. God only knew what they'd been getting up to.

It was just like school, really.

She took firm hold of the fingers and Susan's tweezers darted into play once more. The rest of the Lello boys watched anxiously, except for Owen, who had taken advantage of everyone's distraction to get into the chocolate frogs. He now had three stuffed into his mouth at once. Emily intended to sit on him at the first available opportunity.

You had to discourage these sorts of things, and the swift and angry hand of God, or, as the case might be, swift and angry  _rear_  of God, was usually the best way to do it.

"Got it!" Susan said triumphantly, holding something up. The Lello boy snatched his hand away immediately, for fear that girl cooties would further contaminate him.

"It hurts," he whined.

"Shut up, Madog," Hagvan said instantly, and cuffed him around the head.

Divested of her responsibility, Emily started towards Owen, but he was not without a measure of certain animal cunning. He saw her approach and darted under a bench. Emily stamped her foot.

"Damn," she said. "He's got nearly all the chocolate frogs."

"What?" Gwyneth said, her eyes still fixed on the game.

Emily went to the bench Owen was under. She certainly wasn't going to venture down there after him. Three brothers of her own meant the solution was clear: she got up on the bench and jumped up and down on it a few times.

Mrs. Weasley, in the other corner of the box, gave her a look of mild confusion, and she stopped.

"Sorry," she said.

Mrs. Weasley beamed. "Healthy exercise! That's what I like to see."

Emily considered this for all of about three seconds. Then, very carefully, Emily got off the bench.

The no-longer-injured Lello was still suspiciously inspecting his hand. "It hurts," he said.

"Get some ice," Susan said, the picture of heartlessness now that her medical tasks had been performed.

"But--"

Susan's head snapped back, and, with the air of a slightly slimmer, curly-haired Queen Victoria, she flounced over to join Gwyneth and Catriona at the rail. Jen, with her head buried in her hands, said, "Can I look up now?"

"Yes," Emily said.

Jen stood, in time to be nearly bowled over by Owen Lello rushing from beneath the bench. "You little--"

"He has the chocolate frogs!" one of the other Lellos yelled. "After him!"

There was a mass exodus of dark-haired boys from the box, like a herd of lemmings. Boys. Sugar. Emily rolled her eyes.

Jen sat down again. "I think I saw blood," she said.

"You can't have," Emily said.

"What's that on the floor?"

Emily looked.

"Chocolate," she said.

"I don't believe you."

Emily sighed.

"Oh! That was a good goal!" Catriona cried.

This was beginning to get dull.

 


	10. A Chaser's Work is Never Done

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (10/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  Thanks to everyone who reviewed since the last chapter: Chained Dove, Gileonnen, Liss Havilland, Melodylemming, Mystica, PeanutGallery, RascalMagic, sabrina weasley, Storm, and Trillian42. A big thank you to Fiat Incantatum, who both inspired me to write from Blodwen's perspective and asked when I was going to write something about Baulch's family. Believe me, the idea came home to roost. Just wait till Chapter 11!

I'd also like to thank the marvellous FictionAlley mods who, several chapters ago, patiently held my hand through the vagaries of figuring out the new submission process. I am very grateful.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER TEN: A CHASER'S WORK IS NEVER DONE**

It was almost sunset. Blodwen eyed the stands worriedly, then raised her hand. "Gwen?" she shouted.

Winkler blew his whistle. The Harpies and Harriers flew out to the center of the field.

"I thought we'd have a nice half-hour break for supper," he said, beaming. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Your back's giving you trouble again, isn't it?" Glynnis said heartlessly. Winkler gave her a horrified look.

"Miss Griffiths, what you base that allegation on is entirely beyond me. Please excuse me. Half an hour, people."

He landed, dismounted, and stalked off the field. Gwen dipped her broom down and the rest of them, including Blodwen, followed. She couldn't blame him for being irritated with Glynnis. The  _things_  that woman said sometimes!

"He's limping," Enid Davies said, landing with a little flourish and hopping off her broom. It must be nice, Blodwen thought acidly, to be young and carefree; she herself might be _young_ , more or less, but she certainly wasn't  _carefree_. Not with a baby to look after.  _And_  a husband.

"It's nearly sunset," she announced. "I have to make sure Gareth's putting Tommy down for the night correctly."

Gwen, heedless of the obvious importance of this task, gave her an irritated look and said, "Hold up, we need to discuss tactics. You've nearly stooged again."

"We did not!" Bronwyn snapped. "We were simply making efficient use of resources and performing the Hawskshead Attacking Formation--"

Gwen turned her gimlet eye on Angharad. "Is this true?"

Angharad, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, blinked. "What?" she said.

"Shut up, Angharad," Bronwyn said.

"I didn't ask you a question, Bronwyn, I asked Angharad. Angharad, what were you doing when you scored that last goal?"

Angharad considered it a minute. "Nearly stooging," she said. "Only we didn't."

"Exactly!" Gwen said triumphantly.

Glynnis was looking discontented. "I have a date in three hours, do you realize that?" she said.

Blodwen stared at her. " _I_  have a  _son_  right  _now_ ," she pointed out.

Glynnis and both the Beaters gave her confused looks. Enid Davies reached out and patted Glynnis' shoulder. "Don't worry," she said. "Maybe you'll catch the Snitch."

"Maybe I'll Transfigure Bastnagel into a small Niffler," Glynnis muttered.

"We  _didn't_  stooge," Bronwyn said.

"But you nearly did," Gwen said. "That's the important thing. Even Angharad admits it. You nearly stooged, and if you had, where would we be now? They'd have got a penalty shot and probably made it--God knows I'm not good at preventing the things; they make me nervous--Blodwen, where are you going?"

Blodwen stopped midstep. "It's nearly sunset," she said patiently. "It's certainly time for Tommy's dinner--and Gareth doesn't feed him properly, he never does--he always gets the order wrong and he burps him on the wrong shoulder."

"Have you been listening to  _anything_  I've said?" Gwen snapped.

Blodwen stared at her. She had just made it  _perfectly_  clear why she  _hadn't_  been. Was everyone on this team mentally deficient except for her and, occasionally, Bronwyn?

"We've only got half an hour anyway, Gwen," Glynnis said. "We might as well get something to eat."

Gwen sighed and threw her hands up. "Fine," she said. "Go."

Blodwen needed no further encouragement. She dropped her broom and sprinted for the stands.

 

* * *

"Hello, Bloddy."

"You've put the blankets on in the wrong order again!" she wailed.

Gareth managed a quick smile, although he was looking somewhat glassy-eyed. If he'd been drinking, she'd kill him. He hadn't been, of course--he didn't drink--but if he had been, she'd have killed him. Why was he looking glassy-eyed? He'd been looking that way quite a lot lately. It was probably sleep deprival, she thought, and then dismissed it.

Tommy's face was scrunched up in peaceful sleep, regardless of the blankets. He was in his wicker carrying basket. He looked very peaceful and quiet. Blodwen regarded him for one long moment. She could feel Gareth reaching for her hand. She squeezed his.

"I want another baby," she whispered.

He dropped her hand. " _What_?"

"Shh, you'll wake him up."

"He's been screaming all afternoon, Blod, I don't know that another one is what we need--"

"Why? What were you doing to him?"

"Nothing, Blod. That's just it--"

"Did you call the mediwizard?"

"Dr. Creagie? Yes."

"Oh." Momentarily discomfited by this evidence of paternal competence on the part of her husband, Blodwen quickly rallied. "What did he say?"

"Said he was exercising his lungs."

"He was  _what_?"

"Exercising his lungs."

"What rubbish!" Blodwen snapped.

Gareth grinned, looking somewhat relieved. "Yes, I did think he was just doing it to be contrary--he's got the Williams stubbornness, you know--"

"He must be ill," Blodwen said. "He could have..." She hesitated, thinking. "He could have cholera!"

Gareth frowned. "No, Blod, the symptoms of cholera are quite different--"

"Oh,  _must_  you analyze everything I say?"

"Er, when you're suggesting our offspring has a disease that's generally caused by polluted water supply and can have serious and far-reaching consequences, yes, but I really don't think--"

"I hate it when you call him 'offspring.' He's not our  _offspring_ , he's our  _son_. He's not an offspring, he's a  _baby_."

"He's actually  _both_ ," Gareth began, but shut up very, very quickly as soon as he saw the glint in her eye.

"Has he had his dinner?"

"Yes, actually, he--"

"Did you burp him?"

"Yes. He burped very thoroughly," Gareth added, thereby nullifying her next question.

"Did he eat it all?"

"Yes, he was very good, and--"

This was not going well, or rather it was going too well. It was simply not possible that everything had gone this smoothly. Blodwen cast around for something else.

"Where's Bledri?"

"Your brother? Haven't the faintest."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't know where he is," Gareth said.

She glared at him. "I know that, I'm not  _that_  sleep-deprived, thank you very much."

"Actually, Blod, I've been rather worried about that--"

"He's twelve and you don't know where he is? He's only twelve! You can't just let him run about on his own. He'll fall off the stands or something. He--"

"Last I saw he'd gone off somewhere with Mari Lello's brothers. I think they were pestering the dragon keepers. Anyway, I sort of assumed that anything that might happen is entirely reversible--"

"He's only twelve! God only knows what might happen to him. Did you say the  _Lello_  boys? He'll break his neck!"

"Now, Blodwen, when I was his age my brothers would drag me off on all sorts of adventures and I never broke my neck--well, not really, anyway--"

"But that's different," she snapped. "You're not my brother."

"Good thing, too, because otherwise this marriage would be illegal in most--"

"Gareth!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Where is my brother?"

"With the Lello boys, dear."

"And where is that?"

"I don't know, dear."

"You simply can't allow this to go on."

"No, Blodwen. He's twelve, he's at a Quidditch game, if he wants to run around the stands with his friends he's perfectly entitled to do so. Just because your mum babies him incessantly doesn't mean that everyone else has to as well."

"You're always bashing my mum."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Well, what about you and  _my_  mum?"

"That's different! I don't like her coming by and cleaning the kitchen--she implies that I'm an unfit housewife--"

" _Your_  mum picked out our curtains!"

"That was different! She was  _helping_!"

Gareth sighed. "Didn't you say something about fixing his blankets, dear?"

"Yes! I need you to help--hold your wand so I can see the light, no, not there, it will shine in his eyes... Who's a good boy, then? All right, shh, Gareth, be quiet, you'll wake him _up_ \--"

In Gareth's pocket, a letter crinkled. He wondered whether he should let Blod see it.

"What did I say about that light?" she hissed.

He lowered his wand about two millimeters.

"That's  _better_."

No, he decided, probably not. She'd find out about the contents soon enough anyway.

 

* * *

Dinner in the Williams-Jones encampment was a gloomy affair. Gareth had been dispatched to haul Bledri Jones out of the clutches of the Lello boys, a procedure to which he had vehemently objected. The dragon keepers, who had nearly managed to catch him when Gareth arrived, had also objected.

Upon learning of Gareth's task, they had eyed him with the sympathy childless bachelors reserve for henpecked family men. They had offered him a cigarette. Gil Probert was very strict about his players smoking. As was Blodwen.

He had regretfully refused, taken young Bledri in hand, and managed, somehow (he suspected it had to do with daily Quidditch practices and young Dai Bevan's penchant for sending Bludgers at his head on an hourly basis, which required a lot of ducking), to drag the boy back to the tent, where Blodwen was regarding the dinner with a sort of  _I bloody well didn't make this and I'd like to kill whoever did, but at the same time anyone who criticizes it will have to deal with My Wrath, so don't you forget it_  expression on her face.

"Stop that, Bledri," she said, and the tone of her voice was such that Gareth could almost believe his mother-in-law's tales of the family being descended from Owen Glyndwr.

Bledri, no fool, despite being twelve and so hyperactive the government could have used him as a weapon, stopped trying to bite Gareth's wrist off.

"Now sit down and have some nice dinner," Blodwen said. It was the tone of voice someone else would have used to say  _Now sit down and cover your ears so you don't hear the bombs coming._  Blodwen took cooking seriously. TheyÕd had to purchase pre-made meals and she was clearly unhappy about it.

"Bronwyn coming?" Gareth said, sitting down at the table. Other people might eat outdoors, with campfires. Blodwen, on the other hand, had A Child to think of. Two, if you counted Bledri, although in Gareth's opinion Bledri would have been better classified as A Menace.

"I dare say so," Blodwen said, beginning to ladle something out onto the plates. What it was was anyone's guess. Bledri eyed it with a nauseated expression. Gareth, whose mother believed that if it hadn't been cooked for at least an hour it wasn't properly done, was less taken aback. If, however, the boy chose to make a fuss, it would be his head that Blod's wrath would rain down upon. He wasn't sure why. It just worked that way. Maternal instinct, perhaps?

He thought about the prospect of more children, and shuddered.

He liked children just fine, once they reached the conscious and able-to-talk phase. Give him a three-year-old and he was all set. You just carried it around by the ankles for a while until it stopped screaming. Babies, on the other hand, screamed anyway. And even three-year-olds would eventually grow into preadolescents, such as Bledri. He frowned.

"Don't scowl, this is perfectly good food," Blodwen snapped.

"You don't sound like it," Bledri observed.

"Well, it's what there is, and I haven't time to cook."

"Why not?"

"She's playing a Quidditch game," Gareth said.

Bledri blinked at him. "Oh," he said.

Paint fumes. It must be paint fumes. There was too much paint in that child's room. He liked to paint things on the wall, and his parents liked to come in and paint over them. That, combined with the general stench of preadolescent boy's room, had given Bledri's room an odor that made it seem unlikely you would live long enough to make it to the window and stick your head out. He claimed to like it.

He hadn't had time to do anything to the tent yet. Or at least anything that they could tell without going into his room, which the girls had no time to do and Gareth had no intention of doing. As long as his mother-in-law did not make an unexpected visit, he was hopeful that they would all get out of this with just as many brain cells intact as they'd had when they started.

"We must all be very nice to Bronwyn," Blodwen announced, sitting down at the foot of the table. Gareth had the head. He was nominally In Charge of the family, although this was such a colossal joke that at first he'd thought Bloddy was actually doing it to be funny.

"Why?" Bledri demanded.

"Don't start until she arrives.--Because she's having Trouble with Darren."

"Trouble?" Bledri said blankly.

"He is being very insensitive to her needs."

Gareth stared at his plate.  _They had a screaming fight right before the Kestrels left for Bulgaria, yes,_  he wanted to say.  _Or at least Bronwyn screamed and Darren sidled towards the door. But they're always doing that, what's so unusual about that?_

"Is Gareth being insensitive to Bronwyn's needs?" Bledri asked curiously. Gareth risked a look up. Yes. Blodwen was glaring at him.

"All men are insensitive clods sometimes," she said darkly.

"If it's about the blankets, Blodwen, I've told you, I don't think Tommy notices the difference..."

She sniffed. The door to the tent banged open.

"What's burning?" Bronwyn called.

"Supper!" Bledri yelled back.

Gareth was faintly embarrassed to find himself thinking,  _Oh, come on, it's just half an hour._  Blodwen was a lot more normal when she wasn't playing Quidditch.

Or at least, he amended, as he raised the first, dire-looking spoonful of Supper to his mouth, when she hadn't been playing it for nearly four days straight.

But you could probably say that about anyone.

 

* * *

The announcers had gone to dinner when everyone else did. Adelheid von Roethlisberger had flounced off to the German encampment and was doing God only knew what. Idris Baulch was submitting himself to his daughter-in-law's cooking. His daughter-in-law herself had Apparated back to the Ministry--Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch was on the short-list of up-and- comers in the Ministry, and that meant a workload that would have otherwise been done by seventeen other people--but she had read somewhere, probably in  _The Working Witch_ , that it was important to cook for one's own family to increase togetherness.

Since Elfrida herself had then been suddenly called back, this meant that Idris was eating dinner with The Boy, his only son, and Iris, his granddaughter. The Boy, as usual, had very little to say about anything, and he had a copy of Gus Guilfoyle's latest work on the magical aspects of soybean farming open at the table. Iris had ventured a few questions about horsies, to which her grandfather had nothing to say, since he had last seen a horse in 1933, and then lapsed into an uninterested silence while she tried to scrape the burned bits off her chicken. This was difficult, as it was mostly burned bits. Her mother's cooking skills were negligible; her recipes all came from the back pages of  _The Working Witch_ and promised preparation times of ten minutes or less.

Ordinarily Iris' nanny would have prevented Idris and The Boy from having any contact with Iris whatsoever. Her name was Caroline and she was almost fearsomely competent. She kept Iris fed, cleaned, and well-disciplined; when Elfrida returned from a long day at work, she wanted a ten-minute conversation with a well-behaved five-year-old girl in a white dress, and that was exactly what she got. Iris was given to drawing pictures in crayon with words like "Mummy" over them in atrocious handwriting. Elfrida considered this evidence that she was developing into a well-rounded personality. Idris had little opinion on the subject. All he cared about was that Iris was not allowed to appear at the table with sticky hands and that she reserve her questions for someone who could answer them.

Unfortunately, however, this being the 1950's, Caroline was allowed one evening off a week. This was that evening. Elfrida generally saw this as her opportunity to Give Vent To Her Maternal Feelings, but unfortunately duty had called and The Boy was supposed to give vent to his paternal feelings, which seemed to consist of several pats on the head and an offer to explain soybean farming. Iris seemed to have taken this in stride, thank God, but who could say what she would do next? Idris had been announcing Harpy games for longer than he could recall, and the vagaries of womenfolk were something he could no longer contemplate with a balanced mind.

All in all, Idris had returned from dinner with a somewhat cranky feeling about everything. This was not improved when he saw that there were lights on in the announcer's booth. That bloody German woman had come back, hadn't she? Without waiting! He broke into a light trot, but Elfrida's cooking had settled like a brick in the pit of his stomach, and he quickly resumed walking. He settled for casting sweeping, irritated looks across the Quidditch pitch, where none of the Harpies were in evidence, despite having less than--he checked his watch--eleven minutes before they would have to resume play.

There was the sound of a magical megaphone being turned on in the announcer's booth. What on earth did that German woman plan to say, at this hour?

The voice that issued from the megaphone was not, however, Adelheid von Roethlisberger's... although it was horribly, terribly familiar.

"This Quidditch pitch," the woman boomed, "has been taken over by the Mooncalf Liberation Army!"

Brick in the stomach or no brick, Idris broke into a run.

 


	11. The Mooncalf Liberation Front

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (11/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. No mooncalves were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

 **Author's Note:**  Thank you to everyone who's reviewed since the last chapter: Amberdulen, Elizabeth Culmer, Emily Anne, Fiat Incantatum, Gileonnen, jords, Morwen Langan, Mystica, PeanutGallery, and Taree.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE MOONCALF LIBERATION FRONT**

"The pitch has been taken over by the  _what_?" Enid Davies said, stopping on the edge of the Quidditch pitch and squinting up at the announcer's booth.

"The oppression of mooncalves has gone on for long enough!" the woman in the booth bellowed. "Before this area was taken over and cruelly landscaped for the idle pleasure of Quidditch-playing enemies of the environment, it formed a happy sanctuary for local mooncalves, who would come out and dance in the light of the full moon! As you may be aware, tonight is a full moon--and tonight is the night  _the mooncalves strike back_!"

"Bloody  _hell_ ," Mari Lello breathed, coming to stand by Enid's side. "They're barking mad."

"Have they got any leverage?" Enid said.

"Leverage?"

"You know, things to threaten us with." Enid cast around for half-remembered pranks played by members of the other houses during exams. "Er... Dungbombs or something."

"They've got the announcer's booth," Mari pointed out.

"Well, think about it," Enid said. "So they have. So what?"

"So Baulch and von Roethlisberger won't be able to announce the game--Oh, right."

"It sounds like a win-win situation to  _me_ ," Enid said.

"It doesn't look like  _they_  agree. I think that's Baulch out there banging on the doors."

"Von Roethlisberger's sprinting in that direction as well, trailing underlings behind her like toilet tissue stuck to the bottom of her shoe," Glynnis reported, coming to a somewhat breathless halt next to them. She'd clearly sprinted across the campsite to reach the pitch on time.

"Hello, Glynnis. Did you have a nice dinner?"

"Very, thanks. Gwen and I sat with the girls and sang the Puddlemere fight song."

"The  _Puddlemere_  fight song?"

"Well, we haven't really got one," Glynnis said. "And listening to bagpipes spoils the digestion. What's going on up there, do you know?"

The voice in the announcer's box was stolidly beginning to list the Mooncalf Liberation Front's demands. "Firstly, that all humans vacate the pitch immediately..."

"Rot in hell!" Gwendolyn Morgan screamed, shaking her fist at the box. "We--will--not--surrender!"

"This is hitting her rather hard," Glynnis said vaguely.

"D'you think we should find the mediwizard to give her a sedative?" Mari asked, eyeing their red-faced captain with some alarm.

"I'm sure it will be over soon," Glynnis said. "Does that voice sound familiar to anyone?"

"What, up there?" Enid said.

"Yes."

"It is simply intolerable," the MLF spokeswitch was continuing, "that the priorities of Britain's wizarding community stand the way they do. Even dragons are more important than mooncalves.  _Why_? I mean, really, what's so great about dragons?"

"I'm sure I know her," Glynnis said. "Perhaps she was at school with us. Gwen, love, do you recognize the voice?"

Gwen was shaking with rage and brandishing her fist at the announcer's box. Her anger was apparently beyond words.

"Baulch is really going to have their heads," Enid said mildly, watching as Baulch and several of the under-referees began hurling themselves at the door of the box.

"Oh?"

"His daughter-in-law's head of the Beast Division at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Enid said. "Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch."

"Where do you come off knowing so much about it?" Mari demanded.

"Well, it's not the sort of name you forget, is it? There was an article about her in  _The Working Witch_  a while back... named after her great-great-great--oh, I don't know how many greats--anyway, Elfrida Clagg, you know, the historical one."

"I failed History of Magic," Mari said.

"Oh."

"That's  _it_!" Glynnis said suddenly.

Enid blinked at her. "Glynnis, I hardly think the head of the Beast Division's running about with this Mooncalf Revolution Army or whatever it is..."

"No, that's who it is! Millie Baulch!"

"What?"

"Millicent Baulch. Gwen and I were at school with her, weren't we, Gwen? She was absolutely nutters. Last I heard she'd run off and joined some mooncalf cult..."

"I don't know if I'd call anything named the Mooncalf Revolutionary Army a cult," Enid said doubtfully. "It sounds more like a paramilitary organization."

"I think they were the Brethren of the Illuminated Mooncalves or something," Glynnis said. "And--yes--wasn't there some splinter group? Some of them decided that addressing each other as 'Brother and Sister Mooncalf' wasn't enough and they should free the mooncalves from the tyranny and opression of the human race."

Enid listened to Millie Baulch for a minute.

"That sounds pretty accurate," she said. "But look here, Glynnis, Baulch?"

"Millie and Tillie Baulch," Glynnis said. "They were twins."

"Are they related to  _Baulch_?"

Glynnis grinned. "Daughters," she said.

"My God," Enid said. She looked at the group of angry wizards, still unsuccessfully trying to get into the announcer's booth. They had been joined by Adelheid von Roethlisberger and some pale-faced German sub-announcers. With the combined body mass of all those people being thrown against the doors, it was a wonder the stands themselves hadn't collapsed. "He must be furious," she added feelingly.

It must be rather like--she groped for an analogy--rather like Enid herself marching into the accounting department of Dust & Mildewe Publishers and ripping the ledgers into tiny pieces under the horrified gaze of her father and his colleagues, most of whom had never done anything more objectionable than offer her fluff-encrusted bits of candy they'd found in their pockets.

It was almost enough to make one feel sorry for Baulch.

He had stopped hurling himself at the door and was mopping at his forehead with a bright-blue handkerchief. Enid eyed him sympathetically. He was mouthing something, too. Several interesting months of her fifth-year (the Ravenclaws had been forbidden to cheer out loud at Quidditch games because some of them were using the noise as cover for hexing supporters of the opposing team) had taught her how to read lips effectively enough to tell when someone, say, an unhappy Slytherin, was planning to send a Tarantallegra curse her way.

It was funny how these old skills came in useful. What  _was_  Baulch saying--oh.

All sympathy took a nosedive off the broomstick, as the old adage went. There were  _children_  here, even if he wasn't using those words out loud!

"I think his son farms soybeans," Glynnis added.

"He what?" Mari said.

"Farms soybeans."

"Who on earth farms soybeans?"

"The Boy," Glynnis said. "I don't know his name. They always called him The Boy. Millie was a year ahead of us in Gryffindor. Tillie was in Hufflepuff, I think."

Baulch had resumed hurling himself at the door, and Enid once more found herself feeling, much against her will, sympathetic. He did so look like her crazy great-uncle, the one who had announced he was a reincarnation of the goddess Ishtar and gone about wearing cats on his head and mismatched socks until they'd put him in a Home. He'd acted just like that whenever they'd tried to take the cat away or interrupt his conversations with potted plants. "Baulch is probably on the verge of apoplexy, poor man," she said.

"When are they going to shut those criminal idiots up?" Gwen screamed.

"Really, you think a sedative would be a bad idea?" Mari said.

"This is almost worth missing my date," Glynnis said. "I mean, bugger it, this is going to be one of those games where you're proud to have played it." She looked at Enid. "And met your husband at," she added.

Enid flushed. "Really?" she said stiffly. "So who is it that makes you happy to miss your date?"

"You're going to have to invite the entire stands to the wedding," Glynnis said, unperturbed.

"Oh, no, Glynnis, I wouldn't dream of inviting people to  _your_  wedding. You and Bastnagel will make such a pretty couple, even if you  _are_  several inches taller."

"See, that's the trouble with Ravenclaws," Mari said. "You think they've got nothing in their head except Arithmancy and Ancient Runes--and, in Enid's case, Bludger vectors--and then they go and get sarcastic on you."

"Oh, we're usually sarcastic," Enid said. "It's just that Gryffindors rarely notice."

"What, and Hufflepuffs do? I don't see Blodwen out here, do you?"

There was a crash. Everyone looked up at the announcer's booth.

"They got through the door!" Glynnis cried, obviously delighted.

"You horrible child!" Idris Baulch's magically magnified voice echoed across the pitch. "I should have had you drowned at birth!"

"We will defend this booth from the oppressor with all of our strength!" someone else yelled.

There was an awkward pause.

"Vat is going on here?" Adelheid von Roethlisberger rumbled.

"Humans have stolen the land from the mooncalves," Millie Baulch said loudly. "The full moon is nearly upon us. Soon, our beloved mooncalves will come out and dance. Do you want to frighten them to death? Do you?"

"Yes!" Idris Baulch bellowed. "Dear God... Thank God your sainted mother isn't alive to see this day, I don't know  _what_  she'd say..."

"Mummy  _liked_  mooncalves," Millie snapped.

"She also liked her daughters to dress decently. What in God's name are you wearing, a toga?"

"We of the Mooncalf Liberation Army have thrown off the strictures of common human society," a male voice said, "and choose to wear only clothing made by companies with mooncalf-friendly policies."

"You've got a piece of cloth wrapped around your waist!" Baulch said. "And might I say, my lad, you might do better off with a bit more. You're getting a bit chunky for partial nudity in public places. Millicent, if you don't give me back that megaphone at once, I'll--"

"I'm not sixteen any more! You can't take away my allowance!"

"Goddamnit, Millicent, we're in public! Shut up about the bloody mooncalves and let us play our Quidditch game!"

"I don't see  _you_  on the Quidditch pitch!"

"This is an outrage!" Adelheid von Roethlisberger shrilled. "Take these people and get out of here! All of you! At vonce!"

"We will never surrender!" the MLF wizard bellowed.

"Millicent, I have never criticized your choice of friends before," Idris Baulch said (Mari nudged Enid down on the pitch and hissed, "Oh, I rather doubt that"), "but if you do not remove them from my place of work  _at once_ , there will be trouble."

There was another pause. Then someone screamed, "Tarantallegra!"

"And they're off," Glynnis said, as the MLF and under-referees began hexing like there was no tomorrow. "And they say Quidditch  _players_  are mad."

"I don't even know half those curses," Mari said.

" _I_  know all of them," Enid said.

"Shut up! We did just fine with the ones we did know in Gryffindor--we didn't need all your smug fancy strange curses that don't do anything useful."

"I didn't say a single nasty thing about Gryffindor," Enid said smugly. "If you chose to take that as the implication, that's your problem, not mine. Anyway, I call a curse to make someone's nose fall off  _damn_  useful."

"Is  _that_  what that one does?"

Someone in the announcer's booth gave a grief-stricken wail--exactly the sort of wail a person might give if they found that, say, their nose had suddenly vanished.

"Yes," Enid said.

"Can you teach it to me?" Mari said.

"Well, I don't know if it's strictly legal," Enid said. "I mean, technically it is but ever since the Wizard's Council of 1813, there's been a movement to ban it on the grounds of--"

"Enid, do shut up, I don't want to learn it now anyway," Mari said. Enid sighed and hugged her arms to herself.

"I do wish we'd get on with the bloody game," she said. There was a moment of silence while everyone considered this, except, of course, from the announcer's booth--and the stands. The lads from Cardiff in particular seemed to view the melee as pre-game entertainment and were cheering all sides indiscriminately in between throwing things in the booth's general direction and having the occasional fistfight amongst themselves.

There were several loud thuds from the booth, followed by silence. Everyone was struck by this: the lads from Cardiff stopped throwing things, Mari's mouth, just opened to say something (probably derogatory about Ravenclaws), snapped shut again, and even the clouds seemed to stop zooming across the sky.

Then came Adelheid von Roethlisberger's voice, saying, "Give me the megaphone."

"I will  _not_ \--"

"Give it to me  _now_."

There were a few bumps, then Adelheid von Roethlisberger's voice again, almost oppressively cheerful. "Now that that has been taken care of, ve may begin the game. My..." She coughed. "Esteemed colleague has been..."

"Please don't kick him in the head like that," someone's voice said. "I've got to patch him up or he'll be concussed for the next three hours."

"Vell, I am sure he vill be fine in a few minutes," von Roethlisberger concluded, "more is the pity. If the captains are ready? And the referee?"

Enid looked around the pitch. "The Germans aren't all here," she said.

Mari shrugged. "So we'll have a few minutes."

"They're arguing over there. What on earth are they arguing about?"

"Who cares?" Mari said. "At this point, I'm thinking that the dragon showing up will be an anti-climax..."

"Well, hopefully the dragon  _won't_  show up," Enid said firmly.

"Oh, darling, I'm sure he'll stay even after they've caught the dragon."

Enid lunged for her. Mari prudently hid behind Gwendolyn, who was clutching at her broomstick like a Muggle charwoman who'd stumbled onto a full supply of Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover and was trying to keep the Ministry from confiscating it. She was staring at the announcer's booth as though hypnotized. Enid wasn't really sure she'd registered anything beyond the Mooncalf Liberation Army trying to confiscate the Quidditch pitch.

Enid sighed and abandoned her efforts to catch Mari and hit her over the head (always futile, at least on foot). "Are we even sure what happened up there?"

"It looked like von Roethlisberger laid about her with a handy chair while the rest of them were trying to hex each other," Glynnis said. "Von Roethlisberger won."

"I could really grow to be fond of that woman," Enid said.

"She hates Baulch," Glynnis said. "That's a point in anyone's favor. Gwenny, dear, no one's going to take your broomstick away. It's all over. We've won. We just need the Germans and we'll start bashing them to kingdom come. Won't that be nice?"

" _We'll_  start bashing them to kingdom come, you mean," Mari said. " _You_  just need to catch the bloody Snitch."

"Honestly, I think this really does it for the date," Glynnis said. "This is much more entertaining than the date could ever have been."

"You're sleep-deprived," Enid said. "You'd think counting blades of grass was the most exciting thing you'd ever done. When this is over and you're back to normal, you'll start hitting things."

"When am I ever normal?"

"Ah. Good point."

"Any sign of the twins?" Glynnis added. "Or Angharad, for that matter."

"Blodwen is undoubtedly fawning over that poor child of hers," Enid said.

"I think Angharad's flirting with the boys from Cardiff," Mari said.

"Not your brothers?"

"What? No! They're still in Hogwarts."

"Angharad's barely out."

"Still," Mari said stiffly.

"What about Bronwyn?"

"I think the Kestrels are back," Glynnis said.

"What?"

"The Kenmare Kestrels were in Bulgaria playing against the Vratsa Vultures. They got back yesterday. One of my sister Susan's friends is Quidditch-mad, she had it from the radio. So perhaps Darren is down to watch the game."

"Oh, he can't be," Enid said. "We'd have heard the screaming."

"Enid!"

"What? I just meant they fight all the time--Glynnis, you have a  _dirty_  mind!"

"I won't deny it."

"Oh, come on, here come the Germans," Mari said. "Let's go. The faster we play, the faster it will be time for the alternates again."

"There's an error in your logic there--"

"Shut up, Enid."

 


	12. Night of the, er, Mooncalfs

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (12/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I think this is some sort of record, even for me. I'll try not to let it happen again. A big thank you to everyone who's reviewed since the last chapter: an_crann_as_Eirinn, Elizabeth Culmer, Gileonnen, jords, Mystica, PeanutGallery, Peeler, Serena, SilverKestrel, Storm, Sylph, Taree, and Unregistered (Izzy).

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER TWELVE: NIGHT OF THE, ER, MOONCALVES**

The sun set.

"Mooncalves should be coming out," Gryffindor student Emily Fawcett said happily. She was perched on the back of her bench with her legs tucked underneath her. She managed, in the way of preadolescents, against all laws of physics and human anatomy, to be comfortable.

"They're very bad for the Quidditch pitch," Gwyneth Morgan said seriously. "They pit the ground and they have to re-do it."

"Oh, honestly, Gwyneth, that's what  _adults_  are for," Emily said with some asperity.

"Bastards!" Susan Griffiths shrilled, from Gwyneth's side. "Bastards! You utter, utter  _bastards_!"

"It was an awfully good goal," Catriona McCormack said. "She wasn't expecting that."

"What?" Emily said.

" _She_?" Gwyneth said. "They scored a goal? Those horrible people scored a goal on my  _sister_?"

"Didn't you see it?" Catriona said. "It's a shame we haven't got Omniculars. Look, Gwendolyn was here--" She waved one hand in the air--"and the first German Chaser--" she brandished her other hand--"was  _here_. Now, he had the Quaffle, and he was coming in on a lower vector--oh, see, look at that on the field!  _Look_  at that! Gosh, they're good."

"I can't believe they scored a goal," Gwyneth said. "I hate them. They're horrible."

Out on the field, one of the Harpy Chasers, apparently irritated with the German who had been following her for the last three minutes, threw the Quaffle in his face.

The girls dutifully cheered.

"It could have been difficult," Catriona said disapprovingly. "If the other one hadn't been below to catch it--who was that, Susan?--then the Germans would have gotten it. Very unsound reasoning. You need to plan--"

"I think it was either Miss Jones or Mrs. Williams," Susan said. "And Miss Rees caught it."

"Oh, Miss Jones, then, she has a temper," Catriona said, and then, like a normal thirteen-year-old girl, returned to living utterly in the present. "Your sister Glynnis is flying awfully well."

"Is she trying to dive-bomb the German Seeker?" Emily said, unfolding her legs and coming to the rail to check more closely. She had three brothers, mostly older, and she knew all about dive-bombing and the explosive qualities of Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans when dropped from a great height on to someone's head. Luckily Miss Griffiths didn't seem to have gotten ahold of any, or there probably would have been Trouble.

"It's not as though anyone's seen the Snitch in hours and hours," Susan said stoutly. "She can do what she likes."

Emily watched for long enough to make sure that Miss Griffiths wasn't actually going to hurt the German Seeker, then went back to her spot on the bench. Catriona, momentarily snapped out of the Quidditch game, said, "Have we any lemonade?"

"Not that the Lello boys haven't...  _done_  something to," Gwyneth said darkly.

"A simple taste test would show what it was and then we could counteract it," Emily pointed out.

"Are you volunteering?"

"I'm the only one who would be able to figure out what to do to counteract it, so I shouldn't be the one to drink it."

"Well, I'm not doing it," Gwyneth said. "And Catriona probably wouldn't even notice if there was anything wrong with it--"

"Unless she turned into a frog," Susan said.

"Don't be silly, Susan."

"Actually," Emily said, "if you combine several Zonko's products in the right proportions, you can get a very nice explosive effect which will turn everyone within four feet into giant newts."

"For how long?"

"Thirty-three seconds," Emily said. She shrugged. "My brothers timed it."

"What house are they in again?"

"Ravenclaw. Mostly."

"I'm not doing it," Susan said. "I hate newts."

"Jen might." Gwyneth looked around. "Where's Jen?"

"Her dad dragged her off to help her mother with supper and her younger siblings and things," Emily said vaguely. Jen's mother was nine months pregnant and barking mad to boot. Jen's father somewhat understandably wanted some help in maneuvering Mrs. Weasley around. Also, while he'd heard that worms were a good source of protein, they did not provide enough vitamins for a growing child, and since Jen's five-year-old sister would eat nothing else unless forced, he felt it was his parental duty to intervene, or some such rubbish like that, and someone had to look after Jen's brother while Mr. Weasley tried to force actual food down Jen's sister's throat.

Susan was struck by something. "What about the Lello boys?"

"Eating dinner," Gwyneth said.

"You knew that awfully fast."

"Know thy enemy," Gwyneth said. "We should keep a little roster of where they all are at all times, except that there are so many of them it would be useless."

"Anyway, they wouldn't be good taste-testers," Emily said. "They could have dosed themselves with the antidote beforehand."

"That would have been awfully clever of them," Susan said doubtfully.

"They may seem stupid, but boys are sometimes cleverer than they look," Emily warned.

"They'd have to be," Gwyneth said. "Jesus, Catriona, that was the Germans scoring a goal, not us! Don't  _applaud_!"

 

* * *

"He haversacked!" Gwendolyn Morgan screamed. "Will someone please kill this man for me? He was haversacking!"

Bronwyn Jones, coming up from underneath the Germans to steal the Quaffle, gave her an apologetic shrug as she zoomed off. Gwen stared after her.

"Don't apologize to me, just don't let them have the bloody Quaffle!" she bellowed. How the Harpies managed to function with such a clueless body of women playing for them was sometimes beyond her. Where were Bronwyn's priorities?

And where was the bloody referee, for that matter? The Chaser--Kriebl, Klopsch, whoever; she'd reached the point where all the players were You Sodding Bastard, except for the Seeker, who was That  _Bloody_  Sodding Bastard--had haversacked,  _clearly_  haversacked, and Winkler was doing absolutely nothing, just rubbing his eyes and occasionally--she could hear him! All the way at the goalposts, she could hear him!--asking for "More coffee, damn you!"

Bronwyn was about to score the first goal the Harpies had had in the last bloody hour when there was a loud cry from the stands.

"If you drop that Quaffle, you're a dead woman!" Gwen screamed. Bronwyn tossed it through; Rudolf Brand deflected it, damn him. Angharad reached the Quaffle just before the largest of the German Chasers did. The screaming in the stands was getting louder.

It wasn't that exciting, Gwen thought. Not really. Not compared to the game they'd played against the Grodzisk Goblins last year. Not compared to some of the things they'd got up to  _this_  game, for that matter. Wild cheering was all very well and good, but this was really screaming--more distracting than helpful.

She hoped her younger sister wasn't at the root of this. One never knew, with Gwyneth. Gwendolyn had managed to successfully block most of her teenage years, and consequently had no understanding of her sister's motivations and driving forces, except of course Quidditch.

Surely she must understand that this much noise was more a hindrance than a help? There must be some good book-- _How To Be A Proper And Respectful Fan_  or something like that, surely one of the court orders against the Falmouth Falcons must have mandated the writing of some book like that--on the subject. Perhaps that would be a good Christmas present. Broom polish had gone over well last year and the year before that, but their mother had been dropping hints that something new was needed.

One of the Beaters nearly knocked Angharad off her broom with a well-aimed Bludger. While bellowing for Mari and Enid to get on with it and keep the Bludgers away from their Chasers, Gwen idly scanned the crowd for her sister and the rest of the third-year Gryffindor girls.

Bizarre chants were one thing, but when one-third of one's Chasing Potential is nearly concussed because the full complement of Beaters is too distracted to notice, it was simply going too far. Gwyneth would have to learn to understand that.

But Gwyneth apparently had nothing to do with it. The girls were all seated remarkably quietly, although one of them--the girl with the very fair hair--was grappling in hand-to-hand combat with a dark-haired boy. Presumably he was one of Mari Lello's younger brothers.

What the hell was it, then?

Some sixth sense warned her to return her attention to the pitch, just in time to see Harrier Chaser Dietrich Diffenderffer, coming down at Angharad from an almost ninety-degree angle, manage to snatch the Quaffle. "Jesus!" she bellowed. Enid and Mari had at least got hold of the Bludgers again, as evinced by the two that went whizzing past Diffenderffer's head at rapid-fire speed.

Both Bludgers missed, thanks to some rather good evasive flying by Diffenderffer--she made a mental note to find out who was recording this game and make sure they gave her a copy--but they found another target: one of the German Beaters (the blonder of the two), who was hovering on his broomstick staring anxiously at the crowd.

What on earth was wrong with the man? Gwendolyn somewhat grimly deflected Diffenderffer's Quaffle throw; he tried again, and this time she grabbed the Quaffle and kept it under one arm while she tried to figure out what was going on. Mari was rather industriously zooming after the Bludgers, but Enid was over in the middle of the field in a huddle with the Chasers, all of them staring at the stands.

"Get moving!" Gwendolyn yelled, but none of them paid any attention. "What are you  _doing_?"

"It's a werewolf!" Enid shouted, turning.

The blond Beater gave a loud, unhappy wail. "Hati!" he shouted.

Everyone in the crowd was screaming and there was certainly a large circle opening in the German section of the stands, with a few intrepid wizards holding off a snarling-- _something_ \--at wandpoint.

They didn't seem to be doing a very good job of it. The wards required to hold off a werewolf, Gwendolyn knew from a father, an uncle, and a great-uncle who had all spent many years working for the Beast Division of the Ministry, should be a sort of purplish-green color, and entirely visible.

These were translucent.

Probably a bad sign. Certainly it had been when it had happened to her uncle's wards, at least according to the surviving witnesses.

She checked the Welsh section of the stands, and noticed the Gryffindor girls and Lello boys climbing onto the back of the benches to get a better look. She also saw a rather emaciated white-haired figure positively bolting in the direction of the commotion. Bugger. Mum was going to kill her if Uncle Hippo got bitten by a werewolf, especially at his time of life.

The dragon-keepers were intrepidly moving in the direction of the werewolf as well. Presumably they'd have some idea of what to do.

It was  _then_ , as all the players in the game, Harpy and Harrier alike, with the notable exceptions of Brand, Bastnagel, and Gwen herself, were goggle-eyed at the werewolf in the stands, that she saw it.

As Keeper, she had a great deal of time to watch the game unfold before her. She'd been playing Quidditch professionally for nine years, and as an amateur for eight years before that, from backyard games with the neighbor boys all the way to Captain of the Gryffindor team. You learned to  _notice_  things.

You especially learned to notice  _this_ : a shimmering glint of gold, oh-so-lovely and ever-so-enticing, about halfway down the field, though luckily quite opposite the gawking idiots.

She looked around for Glynnis. Watching the stands with everyone else.  _Bugger_. Trust Glynnis! Just  _now_ , when it was  _vitally_  important that she be paying attention to the field--No, no time for complaining about Glynnis. She could do that later. Right now she had to make sure Glynnis got that Snitch and Bastnagel didn't. She could call for her--but no, Bastnagel was closer.

Drastic action was clearly called for. It took her a fraction of a second to come up with it. It was not for nothing that Gryffindor had taken the House Cup for her last three years at Hogwarts.

Tucking the Quaffle more securely under her arm, Gwendolyn tightened her grip on the broomstick with her other hand and called for all the speed her broom could give her, descending rapidly towards an oblivious Bastnagel, who seemed to be absorbed in cleaning his fingernails.

She halted as he looked at her, surprised. She took the Quaffle out from under her arm.

She hit him over the head with it.

Then she hit him a few more times for good measure.

This seemed to be working well, so she continued the process.

"Aaugrgh!" he said, raising his arms above his head to protect himself. It availed him little: if Gwendolyn Morgan was a woman determined to beat you about the head with a Quaffle, then you would be beaten about the head with a Quaffle.

She took a brief break to check on how the werewolf was doing. The rest of the players, except for Brand (still, arms folded, at his team's goalposts), had left the pitch--damn them!--and were hovering over the werewolf. The blond Harrier Beater had actually dismounted and was crouched just outside the translucent wards (shouldn't someone do something about that?) while crooning to the werewolf. He was too far away to be understandable, even if Gwen had spoken German.

Then the wards broke.

The wizards scattered, screaming. The players, hovering on their broomsticks above the werewolf, all began shouting at once. Bastnagel clamped his hands over his ears, giving Gwen a good opportunity to smack him in the face with the Quaffle. She took it.

Angharad Rees, pin-up girl of the European Quidditch League, was put out by the appearance of an unrestrained werewolf for about three point six seconds. Then she dropped from her broom and to her knees in one smooth movement, tackled the werewolf around the back, and immobilized it with one arm around its neck, the other hand wielding a wand pointed at its head. She chanted three syllables and the wolf's eyes rolled back into its head. It collapsed on the ground, Angharad somewhat ungenteely atop it.

She disentangled herself, stood up, tucked her wand away, and looked with some confusion at all of the awestruck bystanders.

"What?" she said.

 

* * *

It took everyone some time to sort things out. The dragon keepers were put in charge of the werewolf and they took it down to the pitch with the help of the blond Harrier Beater, Idris Baulch's son ("my wife is head of the Beast Division, I suppose I ought to know what to do--but really I'd be more confident if it involved soybeans. That's what I do, you know. I farm them"), and a gleefully chortling Uncle Hippo, who was reminiscing about his days in the Ministry during the Grindelwald era at the top of his lungs.

If the werewolf woke up, Algernon Longbottom had said, it was probably best if it was on the pitch, where there weren't so many people. They would take it down there to wait for the Ministry to arrive.

The trouble with that, of course, was that with all of the "helpers," there were probably more people down on the pitch surrounding the werewolf than there were left in the stands.

Referee Winkler finally called a halt to the game. The Harpies landed on the stands and began to stretch out their hands and look around in as nonchalant a way as possible. Nonchalant was, of course, hard when a spectator had turned into a werewolf and tried to eat people at the game. It was even harder when the seemingly most fluffy-brained of their own number had gotten rid of the damn thing.

Angharad Rees was, of course, the heroine of the hour. More or less.

Of course, charm and affection rarely lasted long in a huddle of Harpies.

"Have we told you yet how much we love you?" Enid said.

"Where did you learn to  _do_  that?" Mari Lello said. "I've got six brothers, and I haven't the slightest idea of how to do that."

"I thought everyone knew how to do that," Angharad said, beginning to twirl a strand of hair around her fingers.

"Just you, apparently," Bronwyn said, sounding none-too-pleased about the discovery.

"I always knew they must have been learning something useful in the Slytherin dormitories!" Glynnis said. "I said, didn't I say, Gwen, that they were probably mock-dueling every night past midnight, and Professor Ludgershall wouldn't have said anything, because he always favored his own bloody house?"

"You undoubtedly said a great many things during school," Bronwyn said witheringly. "I doubt Gwen would have bothered to remember that one."

"No, actually, I do remember it," Gwen said absently. "She screamed it from the top of the Astronomy Tower during a lesson and Professor Behr gave us both detentions." She was still preoccupied with the Snitch--and the werewolf, of course. Would it be possible to sign the woman? Or would that be unwise? Could she even speak  _English_? Blodwen's German wasn't good enough for her to serve as translator. Perhaps she could make Blodwen take lessons...

"How would Angharad learn to mock-duel a werewolf?" Enid said. "It's not as though there were any werewolves at Hogwarts."

"You never know," Glynnis said darkly. Bronwyn rolled her eyes.

"How  _did_  you learn to do it, Angharad?" Enid said. It had really, she felt, been quite impressive.

Angharad stopped twirling and began to fiddle with the end of her ponytail, blue eyes already roaming the circle of attentive faces in search of something interesting. "Oh, here and about."

"You don't learn how to disarm a full-grown werewolf 'here and about'!" Bronwyn snapped.

"You do if you're Angharad," Mari muttered.

"Those little mooncalves down on the pitch are awfully cute," Angharad said. "I do hope the dragon-keepers aren't hurting them."

She set off determinedly to check, undoubtedly having noticed the youth and lack of wedding ring possessed by several of said dragon-keepers.

"But that makes no  _sense_ ," Bronwyn said.

"It's Angharad," Mari said. "I've given up looking for logic."

"There is always a certain logic to it, actually," Enid said. "It's just sort of... Angharad-logic."

"Angharad-logic?"

"Yes. She's got this sort of Angharad filter to everything she does, and once you figure out what that is, she's perfectly predictable."

"You knew she knew how to disarm werewolves?" Bronwyn said.

"No," Enid admitted, "but I'm certainly not as surprised as the rest of you are."

"You're so Ravenclaw it's not even funny, sometimes, Enid," Mari said.

"Thank you."

"I'm not sure it was a compliment."

"It's from a Gryffindor, what else would it be?" Enid said cheerfully, and ducked Mari's swipe. "That was exciting, wasn't it?"

"We should get back to the game," Gwen said suddenly, looking around.

"I don't think we'll get penalized, Gwenny," Glynnis said soothingly.

"But..."

"Why don't we go have a nice sit-down and get some lemonade? Mari's brothers have probably got some..." She steered Gwen off.

Mari started to say something, but was stopped by a swift kick in the shins from Enid.

"Ha! You weren't expecting it."

"Of course I wasn't bloody  _expecting_  it. What did you kick me for? I was just going to tell Glynnis that the boys have probably done horrible things to that lemonade, and there's no telling what it will do--Oh."

Enid smiled.

"Sodding Ravenclaw, always right," Mari snapped, and stalked off in a swirl of outraged dignity and dark-green Quidditch robes. The effect was hampered by the fact that she was limping slightly.

 


	13. He Married a No-Longer-Teenage Werewolf

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (13/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  I'd like to apologize to the reviewers from ff.net-- due to differences in the posting times, I sometimes forgot to thank you guys properly. I'll try not to do it again! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed since the last chapter: Amberdulen, Calypso, Chained Dove, CousinYogurt99, Duece of Spades, elbell, Ennia, Fiat Incantatum, Flamewing, Ilana, innle, KitLee, Mystica, Narcissa Malfoy, Nentari, NickXero, PeanutGallery, RedGem, Sara Minks, Serena, Storm, swirlyhead, and Taree.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: HE MARRIED A NO-LONGER-TEENAGED WEREWOLF**

"Well, that was far more exciting than any of us might have wished," Algernon said brightly. He'd been up half the night with the werewolf. Why on earth did the Ministry think that the message "Full-grown werewolf loose at heavily attended Quidditch game" didn't require urgent action? What would it have taken? "Full-grown werewolf has consumed two Chasers, Keeper; request intervention before visiting team wins game"?

"I could've told you it was going to happen," Jack Dorny said.

"Really?" Algernon said. "Why?"

Dorny snorted. "The Augurey, you silly bugger."

"Oh, now, Jack, that's just rank superstition. Uric the Oddball--"

"Went barmy!" Jack said.

"I think it's been fairly well-established that he was barmy long before he got a pet Augurey," Algernon said. "Anyway, isn't the Augurey's cry supposed to foretell rain?"

"Or drive you insane!"

Algernon took a deep breath. It didn't help. He took several more.

"What does that have to do with a werewolf?" he said.

"Well, like you said," Dorny said. "Superstition and whatnot. So maybe it means a werewolf attack--maybe that's what it really means."

"Strangely enough, I think someone would have noticed now if Augurey calls were customarily followed by full-grown werewolves."

"Well, it's funny, isn't it? That werewolf just  _happened_  to be here..."

"Actually I think it was married to one of the Harriers," Algernon said.

"And that Augurey just  _happened_  to be here..."

"And that was an imitation Augurey call, wasn't it?"

"Seven years' bad luck," Dorny said darkly.

"That's if you break a mirror."

"You'll see," Dorny said belligerently, and went to poke at the Runic Resonance Dragon Attraction Device, otherwise known as the Thing.

"Leave that alone, please," Algernon said. "I don't want it broken."

Dorny, scowling, dropped his arm.

"When's Rusty getting here?" spotty-faced Parker asked, tactfully attempting to change the subject. This was not a good idea, since Rusty was bringing with him Laszlo, the Hairy Hungarian, the Reserve's Horntail expert and Dorny's arch-enemy, but Parker was, as ever, oblivious to such niceties.

"I don't know," Algernon snapped.

"If the Hairy Hungarian tries to spit on my mother..." Jack Dorny warned.

"Dammit, Jack, is your mother even  _here_?"

"No, but you know, if he says, 'I spit on your mother.'" Dorny used his approximation of a Hungarian accent; unfortunately, it sounded more like he'd swallowed something the wrong way. Parker, ever helpful, began pounding him on the back, earning him a swift cuff about the head from Dorny.

"I think it was 'Your mother? Pah! I spit on your mother!'" Mitchell said absently. He managed to look completely at rest, despite standing upright; he was twirling a note absently between his fingers. It smelled rather heavily of perfume.

"He's not said it in months," Algernon said, painfully aware of the fact that his jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth were beginning to ache. Why, oh why, had he been chosen to lead their merry band of misfits to a Quidditch pitch in quest of an errant dragon? Why couldn't they just let the bloody beast roam about? She'd get sick eventually, and come swooping back to the Reserve. If Muggles saw her, well, that was what Obliviators were for, for God's sake.

"He doesn't seem to need as many haircuts as he used to, either," Parker said, his spotty face wrinkled in concentration.

Algernon took several deep breaths. Dorny, who had known him the longest of any of them, carefully edged away.

"That's because his English has improved," Algernon said finally, using the same polite tone of voice he used when speaking to his nephew, who was now exactly seven months old. "He knew three phrases when he got to the Reserve. Now he knows more."

"I'm just going to go and, um, do something, er, very, very far away," Dorny said to no one in particular, continuing to edge away. "Somewhere out of hexing range," he added under his breath.

"Make one move toward the Thing and I will harm you," Algernon said, quite calmly and levelly. Dorny froze.

"What was the third, then?" Parker said.

"The third what?" Dorny said.

"The third phrase."

Dorny snorted. "Probably something obscene."

"'I am hungry,'" Algernon said.

"But we just had breakfast," Parker said blankly.

Algernon forbore to mention that his breakfast had consisted of two bites of a stale piece of dry toast. Then the Ministry had arrived and then they'd had to convince the Ministry men that yes, this rather placid-looking German hausfrau was in fact a werewolf. Rather,  _Algernon_  had had to convince them, while various German Quidditch players built like brick walls stood around and watched or, in one case, tried to breach the wards and embrace the werewolf, all the while shrieking imprecations at the Ministry in German.

The Ministry had asked him if he knew what the German man was bellowing. He had. He had learned most of the words in question while helping half-a-dozen Austrian dragon-keepers capture, sedate and examine a dragon before transporting her to the mountains. He knew the words quite well, since they had been screamed, yelled, and occasionally howled after the dragon had done something particularly interesting, such as setting half a forest on fire or rolling over on top of someone's leg.

He had told the Ministry that he hadn't the slightest idea what they were talking about. Some of these Ministry chaps could be a bit, well, "damme the back-up mages, all Aurors forward!" Best not to get involved in another brawl.

Besides, it had only been four in the morning then. He'd had the futile hope of catching a few hours of sleep before resuming searching the skies for signs of dragons and exchanging desperate owls with headquarters.

But there had been paperwork. Lots of it.

Somewhere amidst all the confusion, the remains of his toast had been trampled, and he'd returned to the tents to find that his co-workers had inhaled the rest of the lovely breakfast someone had sent down from Holyhead. One of the new boys had had syrup on his head, God only knew how.

"'I am hungry' was the third phrase Laszlo knew when he came to Britain," Algernon said, managing, through some superhuman strength of will, to keep from clenching his teeth.

"You know, I  _thought_  he had a really strong appetite, with all that hunger," Parker said.

"That, too," Algernon admitted. Leaving open food around Laszlo was a risky business, despite the fact that he looked perpetually malnourished. They'd finally learned at the Reserve that you simply had to take food away from him at the end of the meal. If you let him eat as much as he'd like, he'd never stop.

"He ate my mum's cookies," Dorny said. "My mum sent me cookies and that bas--"

"Jack!"

"Er... silly git... That--uh, silly git--ate them!"

"I'm sure he didn't know they were your mum's cookies," Parker said.

"How could he not?" Algernon demanded. "It's not as though you had any intention of eating them, Jack! You're lucky he didn't get food poisoning! Your mum's cookies! We'd had talks about leaving those about the Reserve, and what did you do but leave them in the front office where anyone could get hold of them? Thank God Laszlo has the digestion of a Puffskein, or who knows what would have happened?"

"They were my  _mum's_  cookies," Dorny said stubbornly.

"What were  _you_  planning to do with them?"

"They're, um... very decorative!"

"They're brown lumps," Algernon said. "The office would have to be a damn sight messier than it is for those things to count as  _decoration_."

Dorny looked stubborn. Algernon sighed.

"Headquarters will probably give me an estimate of their arrival in their next owl," he said. He checked his watch. "Which is due in half an hour. All right?"

"Finished your report yet?" Dorny said.

"What?"

"Your report. About the werewolf and whatnot. Aren't you supposed to write and let them know when anything unusual happens? Besides the regular reports, I mean."

"Oh,  _bugger_ ," Algernon said. "Does anyone have a spare quill?"

 

* * *

The report had been written and duly dispatched. He'd finally sent Llevelys to Holyhead for further food, and although the new boys had inhaled most of it with the customary fervor of nineteen-year-old boys, Algernon had actually gotten his fair share.

The update from Headquarters had duly arrived; there had been a potential sighting around Caerphilly, although since it was from a Muggle they hadn't verified it yet and they wanted Algernon and the others to stay where they were. Rusty MacFusty and the Hairy Hungarian had been unavoidably delayed, a euphemism which Algernon correctly translated as "have hangovers," and would be there tomorrow morning at the earliest.

The game was proceeding nicely, and everyone was watching in companionable fashion, occasionally debating the merits of the Falmouth Falcons over the Montrose Magpies. There had been a frisson of excitement running through the crowd earlier, when word got out that Miss Morgan, the Harpies' captain, had seen the Snitch very briefly during the whole werewolf incident. Algernon had had to ask around before he discovered that everyone found this interesting in part because Miss Morgan had taken it upon herself to distract the Harriers' Seeker by bashing him over the head with a Quaffle. A very strong-willed woman. Quite admirable.

The excitement seemed to have reinvigorated things somewhat. The German Beaters were clearly hoping to end the game soon, probably because one of them was apparently married to the werewolf. The werewolf herself had been politely but firmly returned to Heidelberg , with instructions not to attempt to re-enter Great Britain for at least six months. Her husband seemed to think that if he concussed enough players, the game would end more quickly, and, really, who knew but that he was right? Certainly the school Quidditch games had more than once ended because the number of maimings was simply too high for either team to be able to continue.

Unfortunately for the werewolf's hapless husband, the Harpies had met this renewed Bludger onslaught with fierce determination. Miss Lello, the small one, zoomed back and forth, chasing the Bludgers the way a Niffler searched for gold. Miss Davies, the pretty one, was more sedate. Once she had a Bludger, she kept it for a while, generally evading attempts by the Germans to recapture it or force her into using it. Her flying was really quite good. It was a shame Algernon had graduated before she joined the house Quidditch team; it would have been nice to see a Ravenclaw interacting with the Bludgers in some way other than being concussed by them. Still, better late than never.

She had a very good sense of timing. Just when everyone had let their guard down, Miss Davies' Bludger would come zooming towards them at laudable speed. Twice the Bludger had been directed towards one of her own teammates; Algernon had winced, expecting the result to be dreadful, but both times the Harpy--once Mrs. Williams, once Miss Griffiths--had suddenly veered out of the way, sending the Bludger straight into a Harrier. They really were a marvellous team.

The Harriers were doing quite well, too, of course--neither team had managed to score a single goal in the last two hours--but their Beaters were not at all comparable to Miss Lello and Miss Davies.

There was a loud thud from the field. Algernon looked up. Dorny and several of the new boys howled in outrage.

"What happened?" Algernon said.

"The Harriers scored!" Parker bellowed, waving a somewhat stained handkerchief in the air as though he hoped to hurl it at a Harrier and choke him to death by assaulting his olfactory nerves.

"Oh," Algernon said, squinting over at that end of the field. Miss Morgan, the Harpies' Keeper, was shrieking something incomprehensible at her teammates. She looked a trifle unsteady on her broom. The shock, probably. Someone in green robes with a blond ponytail had the Quaffle, so that was good.

Algernon checked to make sure Miss Davies still had her Bludger and then returned his attention to his own sphere of influence. One thing dragon-keeping did was teach you to keep your attention from wandering. Stepping in dragon dung was something no one cared to repeat.

The only person not entirely engrossed in the game was Mitchell, who was seated at their rickety excuse for a table, squinting at a parchment scroll. Algernon could smell the perfume from several feet away. He wandered over to the table to check. Yes, it was definitely coming from the parchment. The handwriting was small and precise. The parchment scroll was, in fact, two or three pieces of parchment.

"Everything all right?" Algernon said.

Mitchell looked up, surprised. He looked rather pale.

"It's an owl," he said.

"I guessed as much," Algernon said kindly, pulling up another chair. His legs hurt from tromping back and forth atop the abandoned stands they'd been using as their temporary headquarters, searching the sky for a sign of the dragon or, failing that, another owl from the Reserve.

"It's from Janine," Mitchell said. Not pale, Algernon decided; green.

"That's nice."

"It's a Wednesday," Mitchell said. He sounded nauseous. That, combined with his unhealthy pallor, aroused certain of Algernon's dragon-keeping instincts and suggested he'd be better off out of Mitchell's immediate vicinity. You didn't escort bright-eyed young things straight out of Hogwarts to the stone shack that served as an "infirmary" for sick dragons without learning that the wise course of action was to hand them a shovel and run.

"Yes," Algernon said slowly, "yes, it is. You don't happen to recall if you've eaten any fish recently?"

"Janine's days are  _Tuesday_!" Mitchell said.

That sounded rather confusing, but everything involving Mitchell and females was confusing. "That's nice," Algernon said.

"It's Claire on Wednesdays," Mitchell said, "and Muriel on Fridays, and Julia on Thursdays, though she's only every other week--lovely girl, not at all possessive..."

"Perhaps Julia wrote this owl on Tuesday and it merely arrived on Wednesday," Algernon suggested.

"It's Janine's owl," Mitchell said.

"Right. Janine."

"She wrote it today."

"I don't see what the problem is, frankly..." Algernon would ordinarily have addressed his stricken underling by first name at this point but, unfortunately, he didn't exactly remember what Mitchell's first name  _was_ , so he finished with, "er, Mitchell."

"The whole order's getting thrown off," Mitchell moaned. "She knows she's not supposed to owl me except on Tuesdays, I don't understand it, she might decide to visit me next."

"Well, I certainly shouldn't approve that, as your supervisor, but it's honestly very dull here, so I wouldn't object if she wanted to pay you a visit," Algernon said. "Just don't take more than an hour away from base at a time."

"But it's a  _Wednesday_ ," Mitchell said. "Claire's coming!"

"Oh," Algernon said. "I see how that could be awkward."

"What am I going to do?"

"I really don't know," Algernon said, pushing back his chair and standing up. Other people's affairs of the heart were not something he cared to involve himself in.

Of course, in Mitchell's case, they probably didn't involve the heart.

"Bollocks," Mitchell moaned. "They  _hate_  each other."

"They know each other?"

"I think they're second cousins or something," Mitchell said hopelessly.

Algernon fled.

 

* * *

_Owl, Rusty MacFusty (Dinas Emrys Dragon Reserve) to Algernon Longbottom (Temporary Field Office, Quidditch Pitch 38)_

Algie,

We'll be on our way in a few hours. We're coming by broomstick; they've got some more equipment they want to send over, more's the pity, although in my current state, I think Apparating would probably be a bad idea anyway.

They let us see the bulletins you've been sending up and I have one question: what the hell have you lot been drinking? You haven't let Dorny spike the punch with radiator fluid again? It's a lucky thing for us that Llevelys is Muggle-born, or we'd all be pushing up daisies somewhere on the outskirts of the Reserve, or wherever the hell it is that they bury dragon-keepers who accidentally drank radiator fluid in the cabin while they were supposed to be patrolling the borders of the Reserve. Trust Dorny to make, "Well, it's a fluid, and they're all supposed to be potable," sound like a reasonable statement. God, the things we get up to in our youth. I got engaged to this girl once--but never mind.

My head feels like it's about to come off, did I mention that? It doesn't help that Laszlo is reading over my shoulder and offering suggestions. I had to explain "radiator fluid" to him and finally we had to resort to the Hungarian-English dictionary that  _someone_  (I'm looking in your direction, Algie) stupidly got him for Christmas. That dictionary sent us to Montgomery's Muggle-Magical Dictionary, two-hundred-and-thirty-first edition, which didn't have "radiator fluid" in it. The copyright date is 1822. May I suggest that the Reserve spring for a new set of dictionaries for the library?

Oh, I forget who I'm talking to. You're a Ravenclaw, you'd spend our entire budget on updated editions of  _The Illnesses of the Dragon_  and illustrated copies of  _Dragon Breeding For Fun and Profit_. When will you people learn that there are things you can't get out of books? Only a complete idiot would need books on mating dragons. As though anyone with three brain cells and a wand couldn't figure out what's supposed to go where and when to fertilize the eggs. Admittedly it doesn't help that most dragons have the maternal instincts of dead... bad-mother things. But still.

Have I mentioned that I have a hangover?

You're lucky not to be here, we've got an epidemic of the Flaming Mumps among the dragons. We've got three dragons listed as "seriously ill" and we're having to send out regular patrols to clean up the vomit before it starts to ferment. Believe me, mate, I'm more than happy to head out to the lovely countryside and watch pretty girls playing Quidditch. (As long as Angharad Rees isn't on the team. I know she's a pin-up and all that, but I was at school with the girl, and she frightens me.)

As regards the mumps, it gives us even more reason to want to get that bloody dragon back before she spreads it to the Continent. Laszlo is beside himself at the idea that she might spread it to his precious Hungarian Horntails, although as I've pointed out, once she hits Spain she passes out of British dragon-keepers' responsibilities and the rest of Europe can worry about it. He didn't think it was funny and I rather suspect there would have been trouble if he weren't so hung-over that he can barely lift a wand.

We got pissing drunk in France, thanks for asking. It was fun. Laszlo is white as a ghost and looks as though he is a portrait drawn by a depressed (and hung-over) Victorian artist. You know, all thin hands and sunken eyes. Alcohol doesn't agree with him.

We haven't the slightest idea of who else is out there besides you and Dorny. (Mention of the latter was enough to loosen Laszlo's always-precarious grasp on his English to the point where he was shrieking "I spit on your mother!" in reply to every question. The customs people were not amused, especially as we had several bottles of that really good French firewhiskey, which they ended up confiscating.)

There are six owls and an impatient blonde waiting for Mitchell at the Reserve. Rather, there were six owls and an impatient blonde; we told the blonde that his grandmother had died and sent her home. Advise him that it may become necessary to procure a corpse should she press the matter.

My head feels as though the blonde and seven of her best friends are jumping up and down, screaming "Lying bastard, lying bastard!" at the top of their lungs. I would say I should get out more, but that's what caused all this, now isn't it? Well, that and the pervasive odor of dragon dung about the office...

By the by, there's a rather illiterate scribble from Dorny suggesting you've become engaged to one of the Quidditch players? It's not Angharad Rees, is it? Because I will tell you, Algie, that she is the last person any sane man would get engaged to. She is a terror of the sort that is simply indescribable. She will suck out your heart and then suck you dry. She will try and force you to leave the dragon-keeping field and enter something profitable, like advertising. Yes, Algie, you too can advertise Madam Myrna's Magnificent Mumbling Hex Repellent! And keep your breath minty-fresh at the same time!

On the plus side, you know where you stand with Angharad, unless she decides to stab you in the back. We had a rollicking good time in the Slytherin dorms, but, as they say, it's always good clean fun until someone loses an eye. (The mediwitch put it back, but things were never quite the same after that. He was, after all, a friend of mine, and there was little doubt that it was Angharad who tricked the Niffler.)

So please don't marry Angharad? Even if you love her. Send her to me. I'm in correspondence with her roommates--well, except for the girl I'm determined not to mention, Little Miss Perfectly Efficient and Oh-By-The-Way-I-Don't-Want-To-Marry-You-Any-More--and I have all sorts of good blackmail material if Angharad gets snippy.

Hail Excelsior!

Rusty

 

* * *

_Owl, Algernon Longbottom (Temporary Field Office, Quidditch Pitch 39) to Rusty MacFusty (Dinas Emrys Dragon Reserve)_

Rusty,

1\. I am not engaged to Miss Davies. We've barely exchanged half-a-dozen words.

2\. Tell Laszlo not to worry about Dorny. He will be dead by the time you arrive. Thank you for telling me about the letter, by the way.

3\. Please stop signing your greetings "hail Excelsior." I don't care what in-jokes you had in the Slytherin dormitories when you weren't practicing "Accio trousers!" on the first-years in the Great Hall, I don't want to know. Share your amusements with Llevelys if you must. Listening to his Hogwarts stories is enough to put anyone to sleep and should do wonders for your hangover.

4\. You got the Ministry number of the Quidditch pitch wrong. We're on 39. Number 38 is, I believe, somewhere in Dorset, which I hear is very nice at this time of year. This is probably because they are not expecting dragons.

5\. You didn't happen to get the name of the blonde, did you? Mitchell seems to have had some sort of mix-up with his owls. There's a possibility that he may find two blondes outside his tent tomorrow morning, and if what you say about Flaming Mumps breaking out at the Reserve is true, there's no way they'll send us a replacement for him. Besides which, I happen to know for a fact that Dorny is low on Galleons at the moment and he'll try to get me to spot him a tenner for his share of the funeral flowers, which I am unwilling to do.

6\. Parker wants to know if you have any magazines for him. He refuses to tell me what they are, leading me to suspect that they're pornography and have already been stolen from the mail room. Please do not bring them. The last thing I need is for one of the new boys to get his very first glimpse of  _Hexing Hussies_  while under my quote-unquote supervision.

7\. I have discussed the matter of the Muggle-Magical Dictionary being more than a century out-of-date with the supervisors many, many times. They have promised to purchase the current edition (by which they mean 1952) by 1999, because, they say brightly, "it will probably be on sale then."

8\. It is a shame about the firewhiskey, because I could really use a bloody drink.

Algernon

 

* * *

 


	14. The Overwhelmingly Tragic Lament of the Hapless Referee, if only it were Sung in Tune

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (14/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  As usual, my gratitude to everyone who's reviewed since the last chapter: Amberdulen, Ariana Deralte, Calypso, Chained Dove, Eilan, elbell, Ennia, Expetesso Amoris, Fiat Incantatum, Gwenny, jords, Kaesa Aurelia, KitLee, Malecrit, Mystica, Narcissa Malfoy, PeanutGallery (Karie), Serena, Storm, and sylk. As usual, a huge debt of gratitude to Fiat Incantatum for pointing out the great big ugly knots that occasionally (well, often) appear in the first edition. This chapter is stronger because of her help.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE OVERWHELMINGLY TRAGIC LAMENT OF THE HAPLESS REFEREE, IF ONLY IT WERE SUNG IN TUNE**

Becoming a Quidditch referee was not an easy process. As it was, there were any number of brain-dead idiots who showed up at the International Quidditch Federation's offices wearing robes emblazoned with logos like "Falcons No. 1" and beamingly announcing, "I'm here to be an announcer." The Federation's receptionists took a sadistic pleasure in competing to see who could summon the security trolls the fastest.

Still, nothing in his years of training  _or_  experience had given Lionel Winkler reason to expect anything of this magnitude. He'd already had three migraines, and  _that_  had been just from dealing with Gwendolyn Morgan, the bossiest woman ever to set broom on a Quidditch pitch. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't had a one-woman Greek chorus in the form of her Seeker, the dreadful Griffiths woman. And if her team hadn't been completely insane.

You just knew it could only get worse when you found yourself thinking, "At least the werewolf was gone by the time the captains were both up and screaming at me about the poor state of the pitch, although I don't know what I was supposed to do about that since at the time the mooncalves were destroying the pitch, I was trying to sleep and a paramilitary organization was storming the announcers' booth."

There was just no good way to put that in the annual reports, and his superiors probably wouldn't even  _try_. His requests for further back-up, sent along with a brief summation of the game thus far, had been returned with "Very funny, Lionel old chap" scrawled across the back.

It was 8:30 in the morning, and it was a merry band that was sitting in his tent. No Harriers, thank God; one of his underlings claimed to speak German, but since the underling also claimed that the Harriers' exclamations, even when they were watching the wife of one of their number being deported, had been limited to "The magpie has stolen the pen of my aunt" and "The camel has fallen into the mirage," Winkler wasn't inclined to trust his linguistic skills.

Instead, he had Gwendolyn Morgan, the Harpies' captain, the Woman Who Would Play Quidditch No Matter How Much Everyone Else Wanted Her To Stop. She had assaulted the Harrier Seeker with a Quaffle the other day. He had been forced to limit himself to a sharp reprimand, since he hadn't actually  _seen_  the assault, and the testimony of his underlings-- still some months away from attaining even Provisional Referee status--was worth about as much as that of a blind Muggle midget. Winkler himself hadn't seen the attack because the wife of one of the Harrier Beaters had been trying to bite him at the time. Since all he had seen was slavering mouths and shiny white teeth, he had had to rely on the Seeker's word and Morgan's rather surprised confession. ("Well, of  _course_  I did.") Under the circumstances, the League would never have upheld a penalty shot, much as he would have liked to punish someone,  _anyone_ , for the travesty that his well-organized Quidditch match had become.

Next to Gwendolyn Morgan sat Darren O'Hare, Keeper of the Kenmare Kestrels. He was a rather pleasant-looking man with dark hair and absent eyes. In his capacity as a League official, Lionel Winkler had attended a few Hogwarts games, including a memorable Gryffindor versus Slytherin about a decade ago. O'Hare and Morgan had been the captains of their respective teams, and they had all but torn each other's throats out, but they had been perfectly amiable to each other ever since then, so far as Winkler (along with the gossip columns of several major Quidditch magazines) was aware.

O'Hare was engaged to the woman on his other side, again according to Suzie Snitchip's column in  _Quidditch Monthly_  and Winkler's personal observations. The fiancee a formidable figure in dark-green Quidditch robes, blue eyes narrowed, arms folded. Winkler didn't blame him for looking rather absent; if he himself were engaged to Bronwyn Jones, his mind would probably wander so far that they'd declare him legally dead.

Even more unnerving was the presence of her identical twin, who at least had not yet donned her Quidditch robes. Other than that, the only way to tell them apart was that Mrs. Williams had a small child in her arms. The small child looked as happy as a small child could. Lionel had no children, and he had managed to avoid spending more than seven consecutive minutes in the presence of his nieces and nephews when they were young. He had no idea of what one did with a small child. Or why anyone would want them. They cried, they ate, and they soiled their nappies. That was pretty much it. He had difficulty seeing the benefits.

"If the reserve teams have a problem with one of the calls, they will have to take it up with whichever of my subordinates was refereeing the pitch at the time," he began.

"It's not that," Blodwen Williams snapped.

Lionel turned to Gwendolyn Morgan, who was at least occasionally rational. "Miss Morgan?" he said.

"It's Tommy's birthday tomorrow," Blodwen nearly snarled.

Lionel blinked. "But I thought your husband was called Gareth." Surely he was. He played Chaser for the Caerphilly Catapults, and Lionel had refereed enough of their games to know--Oh. It was probably some sort of pet name for her husband, or some portion of her husband's anatomy, and he didn't want to think about that any more.

"Gareth's asleep in the tent," Blodwen said.

"But--the name--"

"Oh,  _Thomas_ , if you must insist," Blodwen said, rolling her eyes. "I never liked that name."

"It's Daddy's name," Bronwyn pointed out.

"Well, I don't like it. It's too formal."

The Oedipal overtones of this were beginning to alarm Lionel when O'Hare caught his eye. O'Hare jerked his head, ever so slightly, towards the baby, then rolled his eyes.

"Oh," Lionel said, relieved. "I see. Well, er, congratulations."

Blodwen shifted her grip on the child so she could cover its ears. Lionel stared at the infant for a minute. It stared back. It looked surprisingly clean for such a small child. He wondered if Blodwen Williams washed behind its ears every night. She probably did.

"Is there something wrong with its hearing?"

"It's a surprise," Blodwen hissed.

"Surely you must be used to him by now," Gwendolyn Morgan said wearily. O'Hare tapped her on the knee and shook his head. She blinked at him. "What?"

He whispered something in her ear. She pulled away and gave him an incredulous look, as though he'd just announced he'd discovered a way to perform the Starfish Without Stick.

Blodwen was completely oblivious to this interchange, and Bronwyn hadn't taken her eyes off Lionel for a second. It was beginning to unnerve him. It was rather like his fourth year at Hogwarts, when he'd become convinced that the statue of Uric the Oddball outside the Ancient Runes classroom was staring at him every time he walked by. (The Headmaster had threatened him with a caning if he hadn't stopped telling the first-years to be careful about going too close to it. It was only four years later that he'd learned the Headmaster wasn't allowed to cane students. He was still annoyed about it. Surely educators shouldn't be allowed lie to children. There ought to be a law.)

"The team's having a surprise birthday party for him if we're still playing," Blodwen Williams whispered, surprisingly piercingly.

Gwendolyn Morgan said, "No, we're not."

"What? But it's his birthday tomorrow," Blodwen said. "He'll get confused if we have it on another day."

"No party."

"Of course we're having a party," Bronwyn snapped, turning her glare on her captain, much to Lionel's relief. Miss Morgan, damn her, didn't seem at all discomfited, and O'Hare didn't even lean out of Bronwyn's line of sight, the way any sane man would have.

"If we're still playing tomorrow, we're going to be  _playing_  tomorrow," she said. "We can't possibly have a party. Anyway he's probably too young for a party. My sister Gwyneth spent her first birthday party trying to hide inside the cake, and she was three. It took us nearly four hours to get all the frosting out of her hair."

That was quite possibly the longest sentence Lionel had ever heard out of Gwendolyn Morgan that did not contain the word "Quaffle." It was quite impressive.

"Not to be insulting, Gwen," Blodwen said, her tone implying anything but, "but Tommy is just a little bit brighter than Gwyneth was."

"What? She did so well on her Defense Against the Dark Arts exam last year that she reduced the entirety of Ravenclaw House to hysteria."

"Be that as it may, Tommy has been tracking with his eyes since he was three days old--"

"Really? He might play Seeker then. Your family runs to Chasers, doesn't it? I think one of Gareth's brothers played Beater at Hogwarts, but that was Ravenclaw and I think he fell off his broom for three years running."

"Yes," Darren said. "We mocked him."

"He's a very nice man," Blodwen said stiffly, "and I don't see that you had to do that, even if it is traditional for Slytherin House to mock--"

"And Darren's a Keeper--"

"That remains to be seen," Bronwyn said, in tones that could have been used to package ice mice for shipment to the Sahara. "We haven't discussed Bulgaria yet."

"Bulgaria?" Lionel said hopelessly.

"The Kestrels were playing the Vultures," O'Hare said. "I'm the captain, Bronwyn, I had to go."

"No you didn't."

"Actually you have to sign papers before the start of the match," Gwendolyn began.

"Stay out of this, Gwen!"

"Oh, don't start in on her, Bronwyn. This has nothing to do with her. This has to do with you and me."

"Me, me, me! Everything's about you! When it comes to my family, it just doesn't count, does it?"

"I don't  _have_  a family," O'Hare said, quite reasonably, Lionel thought, considering how well-publicized his parents' magic carpet crash had been. Of course, it was no wonder that the carpet had gone down, what with the firewhisky and the Billywigs and the exceeding of maximum occupancy and the attempted modification of the levitation charm mid-flight. Really it was a wonder they'd made it all the way to Brazil before going down like a dead dragon.

"Just because Gwen's like a sister to you--"

"She is  _not_ ," O'Hare said. "I hated her all through Hogwarts."

"What?  _Gwen?_  How  _could_  you? She's a wonderful person and a wonderful captain and you just-- _judge_  her, like some sort of--of horrible person!"

"The feeling was mutual," Gwen Morgan said helpfully, but Jones ignored her.

"She was the captain of the Gryffindor team and I wanted to tear her eyeballs out," O'Hare said. "It was purely Quaffle-related, of course, but the fact remains."

"Her eyeballs? That's disgusting! There's a child in this tent, Mr. Darren 'I-don't-have-a-middle-name' O'Hare!"

"Blodwen's still covering his ears."

"Oh, so it's 'Blodwen' now."

"And has been for some time--"

"Considering the lack of respect with which you've been treating me for so long, I think perhaps you'd better stop calling my sister 'Blodwen'!"

"What am I supposed to call her? 'Hey, you'?"

"'Mrs. Williams' will work just fine!"

"Yes, but I've always called Gareth's mum--"

"Darren!"

"While this is very fascinating, can we get to the point please?" Lionel said.

"We're going to need a break for the surprise party," Blodwen said. She uncovered her son's ears with a flourish.

"I have no intention of leaving the pitch to throw a party for a two-year-old," Morgan began.

"Don't use that  _word_!" Blodwen snapped, lowering her head to peer at her son to make sure he hadn't heard.

"Blodwen, while I've clearly been getting more than enough sleep, for whatever reason I'm simply not functioning at full form, and you have to keep in mind that we're not all linguists," Gwendolyn said wearily. "Enid is the one who speaks Gobbledygook, not me. If you could keep it to English?"

"We shouldn't mention the word in front of him," Blodwen said.

"Welsh would work also," Gwendolyn said.

"I haven't the slightest idea what the Welsh word would be," Blodwen said.

"Don't you speak Welsh?"

"Daddy didn't believe in learning foreign languages."

"Don't you speak German?" Gwendolyn said.

"Except for German," Blodwen amended. "He was convinced that Grindelwald would invade."

"We spent most of our childhood in a bomb shelter," Bronwyn said. She looked like she was sulking, but that was better than staring at Lionel with the intensity of a hungry vampire on the twelve-step program, so he didn't protest.

"He gave us a piece of candy for every German vocabulary word we could repeat at two-week intervals for three months," Blodwen said, smirking slightly and reminding Lionel of several of his cousins, the ones who had addressed him as "Spineless Lionel" from the time he was six until--well, they'd still been using it at his cousin Cecily's birthday party last month, which was the last time he'd seen them. Thank God they all considered Quidditch phallic and dull.

"But Bronwyn doesn't speak any German at all," O'Hare said, putting an affectionate hand on his fiancee's back. She shook it off.

"I wasn't interested."

"Oh, right," her sister began. "I remember--"

"Well, Blodwen didn't work all the fat off until we were nearly twenty!"

"That was puppy fat!" Blodwen cried.

"Oh, come on, Bloddy, it was  _not_."

"It  _was_."

"For God's sake, someone tell me what you want," Lionel said. This was beginning to resemble Cecily's last birthday party all too closely. Any minute now someone would start singing "Spineless Lionel, he's not high-on-ell, because he is very short," and things would degenerate from there. He had a reputation to maintain, a certain dignity to uphold, and having Quidditch players gamboling about the pitch carolling "Oh, Lionel, the last time you met a girl, you fainted and then she asked you where you got your curls, and oh! spineless Lionel, you are so shy-oh-nell!" would not do anything to keep his suboordinates in awe.

It wasn't particularly logical that they would know his cousins' favorite family celebration song, of course, but it was early in the morning and he had an incipient headache and the horrible Jones-Williams twins were giving him  _that_  look, the one that suggested the only reason they weren't singing the Spineless Lionel song was that they'd prefer to surgically extract his spine first.

"We would  _like_ , Mr. Winkler," Blodwen said, through clenched teeth, "a  _break_. For  _Tommy's birthday._ "

It simply wasn't worth arguing. "If you can get Brand to agree to it, fine," Lionel said. "Now please get out of my tent." He was still in his bloody dressing gown. They really were just as bad as the cousins, who were forever wandering into his room and cackling things like, "Shouldn't you have gotten rid of that paunch, considering all the Quidditch you're supposedly playing?"

"I don't see why we should have to persuade Brand," Blodwen Williams announced, shifting her grip on her offspring. "That's your job, you should do it."

"I don't  _want_  a break," Gwendolyn Morgan said. Her face was very firm. It was her If You Give The Opponents That Penalty Shot I Will Report You, Because It Is The Stupidest Call You Have Ever Made face, which Lionel was more familiar with than he would have liked. "If you two try to leave the pitch, I'm having Mari send a Bludger at your head."

"Then  _what_  are you doing here?" Lionel cried. He could feel a headache coming on.

" _I_  didn't know what they wanted," Gwen said. "I assumed Blodwen wanted you to levy sanctions on the Catapults because Gareth refused to change Tommy at three in the morning. She's done it before."

"Not on  _my_  watch she hasn't," Lionel snapped. The headache was beginning to press chilly fingers around his temples and squeeze.

"It's generally easier to give her what she wants, within reason," Gwendolyn said. "No one plays well when they're distracted, but anger works well as a motivation." She glanced at O'Hare. "I wouldn't do it if I weren't sure they wouldn't  _agree_ ," she added hastily. "Censuring the players of other teams for personal reasons is the sort of thing I would never condone if I thought the referees would actually  _agree_."

"I know Gareth better than you do," O'Hare pointed out. "Not that I mean to imply he doesn't get on with you; he does, of course. Who wouldn't? Everyone gets on with you girls. Erm. Women. I meant to say 'women.'"

"Glynnis is the one who threatened to use you as a tent peg if you called us 'girls' again, not Gwen," Bronwyn said. She sounded smug about it.

"I  _know_ that," O'Hare said. "I can tell them apart. I was at school with both of them for seven years. We called them the Ghastly Gryffindors and plotted their destruction. I've played Quidditch against them since we were all  _twelve_."

"Badly," Gwendolyn added. "Well, not you, but Hesperus Flint was just an awful Seeker, for Slytherin and, well, for any other team he played on--really, what were the Falcons thinking when they signed him? I think they must have been blind."

"I think  _he_  was blind," O'Hare said.

"You did so mix up Gwen and Glynnis," Bronwyn said to him uncertainly.

"No I didn't," O'Hare said.

"You should have replaced him with the reserve, you know that," Gwendolyn said.

"Yes, but the reserve Seeker refused to show up to practices. I eventually had to boot him off, for God's sake. Discipline is more important than near-sightedness."

" _I_  never had any problem with discipline. At least not, you know, at school."

"Don't think I don't know why that was."

"What are you trying to imply?"

"I'm trying to imply Glynnis," he said.

"How can you imply Glynnis?" Bronwyn snapped. "Don't be stupid, Darren, you can't imply a person."

"I'm trying to imply that you sent Glynnis to wake any late players up by dousing them with cold water."

"I didn't actually  _send_  her," Gwendolyn said. "She just... went."

"And that game we played fourth year? I suppose she just  _went_  to the Slytherin dorms to considerately provide us with that lovely wake-up call?"

"Actually that was the house elves."

"The  _house_  elves?"

"Yes."

"How did she get them to do it?"

"I don't know, I thought it better not to ask. As it was, I had a hell of a time convincing Professor Ludgershall that she'd been at practice with us when it had happened."

"That's so bloody unfair. When we tried to get them to short-sheet your beds, they wouldn't do it."

"Glynnis can be... very persuasive."

"Well, the German Seeker seems quite taken with her," O'Hare said lightly.

"Don't remind me, please."

"Sorry."

"Actually I should go make sure she's up." Gwendolyn Morgan checked her watch. "We really should have been out on the pitch practicing for a half-hour now. You shouldn't have kept us so long, Mr. Winkler," she added severely, and stalked out.

Lionel looked at the rest of them. They looked back. They made no move to get up.

"If you don't get out of my tent I'm going to scream," Lionel said desperately.

His eyeballs were going to start feeling like they needed to explode any minute now, and he hadn't even  _begun_  refereeing. His underlings had brought him rumors from the crowd yesterday that Miss Griffiths was on the verge of transfiguring the German Seeker into a smock, or something else ending in "uck," depending on who you asked, and if  _that_ happened on his watch, he'd probably get Sanctioned. He  _had_  to keep a close eye on the match today, and that was hard to do when you felt like red-hot broom twigs were being poked into your ear canal. If he could only get them out of here before the headache began, he might have a chance.

"You sound like a heroine in a bad Victorian novel," Bronwyn said, adding, at Lionel's surprised look, "not that I read them or anything. Um."

Tommy Williams solved the problem by beginning to scream. Lionel flinched. Bronwyn, more sanguine about the presence of a squalling infant, covered her ears. O'Hare, with faster reflexes, lunged for the door of the tent and made it outside right before several of Lionel's underlings made it in. They bolted through, wands raised, acne-spotted faces flushed, barely-post-pubescent voices cracking with excitement as they squealed, "Prepare to die, foul attacker of the Quidditch League's appointed representative at match number--er, let me check my notes."

One of them tripped over a pot of begonias. It broke, all over the carpet.

"I'm not the one screaming, you idiots," Lionel said. "Mrs. Williams, if you don't--"

Blodwen Williams was not slow to take a hint, once you'd bashed her over the head with it a few hundred times. She rose with great dignity, her offspring cradled to her chest, and said, her voice barely audible over the howls but doubtless filled with great dignity and majestic confidence, "I shall go and see if Gareth has woken yet."

"If he hasn't now, he undoubtedly will when you get back," Lionel muttered at her retreating back. She nearly tripped over the spilled begonias, but didn't. Those reflexes would undoubtedly serve her well when her spawn reached the mobile stage.

The lead underling looked up from his fruitless search of his pockets. "I can't find my notes," he said. "Um, will this be in my evaluation? The one that you write at the end? Because I had them just a minute ago, I really did. Does this have to go into my evaluation? Because I can't see why it--"

"Yes," Lionel said, closing his eyes. He'd wondered whether the headache would reach the red-hot-broom-twigs-in-the-ear-canal stage. His question had now been answered. "Yes, Nigel, I'm afraid it does."

"My name's not Nigel, sir--"

"Get. Out. Now."

The underlings fled, leaving Lionel alone with his well-apportioned tent, a bed he was not allowed to return to, a broken pot of rather limp-looking begonias spilled across the floor, half a box of stale cereal in the kitchen, and what looked like a spot of baby vomit on the carpet. And, of course, excruciating pain.

There really was nothing quite like Quidditch.

 

* * *

"How long have we got?"

Enid checked her watch. "Twelve minutes."

"And no sign of my mum. Bugger."

"Why?"

"If she's not here, I'm to leave my brothers under the supervision of Gwen's great-uncle."

"Presumably he's agreed to this," Enid said.

Mari said, "Have you met him?"

"I can't recall--" "See the purple splash over by the dragon-keepers?"

"Oh, honestly, Mari! I don't understand why you must keep harping on this--this  _thing_  you imagine between me and Mr. Longbottom, as though I've never had a boyfriend! In all the time we've known each other, I've not  _once_  poked fun at one of your men friends, despite, I might add, their numerous and often alarming abnormalities--"

"The purple splash," Mari said, "is a cape. Being worn by Gwen's Great-Uncle Hippo."

"Oh," Enid said.

"D'you see how it's running along the edge of the stands?"

"I thought that was an optical illusion."

"I was woken up at six this morning because he was running around claiming to be the reincarnation of a Muggle acrobat called the Great Marconi."

"Oh," Enid said again. "I thought he was quite harmless, from what I've heard of him."

Mari bit her lip. "Well..."

"What?"

"Nothing really--"

"Mari!"

"I think the boys may have given him something last night."

Enid, Ravenclaw to her fingertips, drew the logical inference in one point three seconds flat. "So it's their fault."

"Erm... probably."

"Serves them right, then."

"No it doesn't," Mari said. "A senile guardian is their idea of a godsend."

"Oh God," Enid said. "Do you know, I'm actually glad that we're playing? I would have thought that I wouldn't be. I would have thought it was humanly impossible that I be glad about it. Now I am."

"See, this is why  _I_  haven't been complaining," Mari said.

What are you talking about? You have been complaining."

"Not complaining  _much_ ," Mari amended.

"How did they give it to him?"

"I'm not sure. It hardly matters."

"I think they pursued Susan Griffiths through the encampment about a half-hour ago," Enid said, by way of explanation. "Glynnis' younger sister? Yes, well, Glynnis was chasing after them, and I think she may have... stopped and... had something to drink."

"Well, I can't see how that... Oh,  _bugger_."

"Have you caught on now, or should I explain further?"

"Shut up, Enid. Do you think we should... tell someone?"

"They're your relatives," Enid said. "If anything, Winkler would give  _us_  a penalty for... well, I don't know what, but something. I think there was an early-morning meeting. He seemed a bit disturbed this morning."

"Enid, it's  _Winkler_. If he's  _not_  acting disturbed it's because he's  _ill_. Bugger. I'm going to kill them. Where are they?"

"We've only got nine minutes left," Enid warned, "so if you're going to kill them, you'd better do it fast."

"Do you remember that nose curse?"

"What nose curse?"

"You know, the one they were using up in the announcer's booth when there was all that bugger-all about the mooncalf people."

"Oh, that," Enid said.

"It sounded quick."

"It's dangerous..."

"Enid, we've been playing for four  _bloody_  days, and my brothers have just drugged our Seeker with God-only-knows-what."

"I'll come with you," Enid said quickly.

 


	15. Best Fouls of the European Quidditch League, Volume I

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (15/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  This chapter goes out to the lovely and talented Fiat Incantatum, who beta'd an earlier version. All errors were either left in contrary to her advice or introduced in a later draft. I figured that several months was long enough to wait and I had to stop with giving myself excuses, so I'm sending it out as is, in the (probably vain) hope that it will be more or less legible. The next chapter should not take nearly so long. It is not my fault that Millicent Baulch's cohorts can't spell.

That said, thank you to everyone who's reviewed since the last chapter: Allie Watson, Amberdulen, Angus Hardie, Ariana Deralte, Chained Dove, CherryMintChocolates, Chthonia, Circe, ClaretValour, CousinYogurt99, cypress, Diricawl, Expetesso Amoris, Fiat Incantatum, Fleur, Freakage, griffin_blaire, Hesper, jords, KitLee, Lady Touchstone, Malecrit, Medea Savin, Melody daughter of Eowyn, Melody Brandybuck, musicmage, Mystica, Narcissa Malfoy, Nentari, oowth, Otiina, PeanutGallery, Rilina, and zanycharms. Whew!

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: BEST FOULS OF THE EUROPEAN QUIDDITCH LEAGUE, VOLUME I**

Most of the small boys had run off somewhere, thank God. Caroline Noggle liked boys in theory but she was rapidly finding that the Lello boys defied any theory  _she'd_  ever heard of. Of course it was all their mother's fault; she shouldn't have had so many of them. If she hadn't had so many of them, she might have been able to raise them according to the precepts set down by Gratiana Purghouse in her fundamental  _How To Raise Winsome Wee Witches and Wizards_. On the other hand, probably the very fact that she had produced so very many wee little... darlings... meant that she probably wasn't the sort of woman who would  _read_  Gratiana Purghouse. She'd probably been too busy producing children to read  _anything_.

Caroline kept trying to think of them as "darlings." Gratiana Purghouse was very firm on that subject. A child's self-esteem was very important and you must, under no circumstances, call a child hurtful names. In her position as nanny to young Iris Baulch, Caroline was very careful to never call Iris anything bad. Even when Iris was misbehaving, she was, in Caroline's lexicon, an "angel." Deed will follow word, Gratiana Purghouse said. If these little... darlings'... mother had not been progressive enough to read Gratiana Purghouse, then it was Caroline's  _duty_  to try and encourage them, even if it was only to think of them as "darlings" rather than the far more accurate "beastly little monsters with poor hygiene."

The... darlings... been running wild during most of the game, at least the part that Caroline had been present for, and no one had done anything... except for the Harpies who were, apparently, chasing them down. It was enough to give Caroline a migraine, what with the small woman in the green robes shrilling, "Come back here, Pryderi! Hagvan, I saw that! You little sods--you're dead, I tell you! Dead!"

There were any number of problems with this particular event. Firstly, it was possible that something would happen to the Harpies while chasing the... darlings... which in turn would cause Iris' grandfather, up in the announcing booth, to have yet another conniption fit, and there were enough of those during the thankfully rare Baulch family dinners. (Baulch family dinners were vegetarian, as Iris' father raised soybeans and Iris' mother had read something in  _Working Witch_  about the health benefits of vegetarianism. Iris' grandfather, on the other hand, was carnivorous.)

Secondly, while Caroline was sure the Harpies were delightful people--one of her old roommates was a Harpy, after all, although Angharad probably wouldn't chase anyone unless they had damaged her hair--they were not really  _helping_  the poor... darlings. Gratiana Purghouse was extremely firm about the fact that Calling Children Names Does Not Accomplish Anything. The Harpies were not only calling children names but threatening them with death. If the poor little... darlings... weren't already juvenile delinquents, they would be well on their way after hearing  _that_  sort of thing shrieked after them in a crowded public area!

Worst of all, it had been giving Iris Ideas. Caroline, as a progressive nanny, was all in favor of Ideas, but they had to be the right sort of Ideas. If you went around allowing children to have whatever sort of Ideas they pleased, there was no telling what they would come up with. They'd probably end up at a--at a dragon reserve somewhere, shoveling dragon dung and muttering things about security systems under their breath. That was exactly what had happened to one of Caroline's housemates, and frankly Rusty MacFusty had been nothing  _but_  Ideas during their time at Hogwarts. Gratiana Purghouse was very big on Learning Examples From The World Around Us.

A small dark-haired boy bolted past and dove over the back of their section of the stands, seemingly headfirst. Caroline cringed slightly and tightened her grip on the hem of Iris' skirt. The very small Harpy followed the boy, bellowing.

"He went off the edge!" Iris announced.

"Indeed he did," Caroline said sternly. "And it was reprehensible of his mother to allow such a thing!"

Iris blinked at her. Caroline sighed.

"Do we have to go over last week's vocabulary again?" she said.

"No," Iris said quickly.

"Now, Iris, did you really mean that?"

"Yes?" Iris ventured.

Further interrogation regarding Iris' motivations in avoiding a possibly necessary vocabulary lesson was cut short by the panting arrival of a curly-haired, slightly chubby teenage girl.

"Did Miss Lello just go by?" she said eagerly.

"Who?" Caroline said coldly. She had enough difficulty isolating Iris from the Undesirable Element on the pitch without people coming up and asking questions.

"Hallo!" Iris said, waving at the girl.

"Erm, she's rather short, and she was probably chasing these boys, they're her brothers, they're awful."

Several other girls suddenly appeared at the other girl's shoulder. One of them had hair so red that her mother shouldn't have allowed it, while another of them was being dragged by the wrist by yet another, casting longing glances at the Quidditch pitch behind her.

"Found them yet, Susan?" said the girl doing the dragging.

"Hallo!" Iris said again, waving at the girls. The red-haired girl waved back.

"They must have gone by here, I saw them," said a thin-faced girl with very fair hair. "If we hurry up we might get there in time to help!" She brushed past her friends, running up the steps.

"Have you seen Miss Lello and her younger brothers go by?"

"I may have," Caroline said cautiously. Questions regarding screaming maniacs, no less. Caroline had no illusions about the amount of screaming chaos that could be perpetuated by a couple of teenaged girls with the right encouragement. She'd been one herself. She'd been in Slytherin. They'd stormed the Astronomy Tower once, and that had been  _before_ puberty.  _And_  it had involved boiling pitch.

"Right over the edge!" Iris said, beaming.

"Where are your mothers?" Caroline added, making sure that she had a firm grip on Iris' skirt. Gratiana Purghouse felt that it was always desirable to keep Unpleasantness from children for as long as possible.

Somehow, with Iris, this never seemed to work. She noticed every time her grandfather suggested her father stop farming soybeans; she could have listed all her aunt Millicent's ridiculous phases; she remembered each and every word her mother used to describe people who disobeyed the Departmental rules and bycodes.

Now she had noticed, apparently, that there were women chasing small boys around, calling them names, threatening to murder them, and engaging in possibly fatal stunts such as jumping over the back of the stands. With this sort of information in her brain at such a young age she'd end up an axe murderer if steps weren't taken. Thank heavens that Caroline was here to save Iris from such a fate.

If only all children--such as these preadolescents, clearly bound upon a trail that could only end in tears--had Iris' benefits. While their mothers probably did not have Caroline's training, they would be better than nothing.

The red-haired girl was already following the blonde up the steps, but she paused to say over her shoulder, "Daddy wanted to move my Mum to a less sunny part of the stands in case she goes into labor, and I think she had to talk to Arthur about the Square Shirt Fire or something like that." She turned back and continued on her way.

Caroline blinked. Perhaps... not... better than nothing.

"Mine's at home," the dark-haired girl said. "She gets bored, she says that if she's seen Gwen stop one Quaffle she's seen her stop five hundred, and it makes her nervous when Gwen doesn't manage it, so why bother?"

"Mine's a Muggle," the chubby girl said. "But don't tell Jen's mum if you see her, because she'll have cats and want to ask her about Churchill."

"I like cats!" Iris said eagerly. Caroline would have closed her eyes if she hadn't known that preadolescent girls seized upon any sign of weakness and used it as an opening to perpetuate things involving insects. She'd been one. She knew.

"Susan has a cat," the dark-haired girl said. "His name is Mr. McScruffy," she added, smirking.

"I--He  _came_  with that name, I can't help it!"

The dark-haired girl cackled with laughter and vanished up the steps, still towing her silent companion in her wake like a reluctant satellite.

"Well..." the chubby girl said. "Er... Thanks, I suppose. Um... Good-bye."

"Good-bye!" Iris said, waving. Caroline would have grabbed her hand but Gratiana Purghouse did not believe in using Physical Restraints on children. Anyway, the damage had already been done. Iris had spoken to these dreadful... no, these poor, motherless, deluded, misguided girls... and been spoken to by them. The steps Caroline would have to take would involve a thorough discussion of social mores, vocabulary, and the inadvisability of handling insects before the age of seven.

The girl waved back and followed her friends up the steps.

From further up the stands--just where the girls, and before them the women and... little darlings... had vanished--someone screamed. Caroline closed her eyes. Iris tried to stand up.

"Sit down, Iris," she said.

"But they--"

"Define 'reprehensible,' please, Iris."

Iris sat down.

Caroline sighed. She liked children. She really truly liked children. The trouble was that most of the children she encountered seemed to have been replaced at birth by trouble-making little monsters.

 

* * *

The announcer's booth was littered with paper cups and the detritus of an occupation by the valiant forces of the Mooncalf Liberation Army. Actually, it looked much the same as it had before. Some of the benches looked a bit wobbly, as though the repair charms had been applied a trifle hastily. The only other signs of the past presence of an invading horde were the scuff marks on the floor, the dents in the megaphones, and of course the "Free The Mooncalves From The Human Opresores" written in giant burning letters on the wall behind the announcers.

The announcers themselves hadn't changed much, or at least--in Idris Baulch's case--their rapid unraveling had not progressed beyond what might have been expected.

"He blatched."

"He did not blatch."

"Yes, he did."

"No, he did  _not_!"

"In  _all_  my years announcing Quidditch, I have never seen as obvious a case of blatching as I did just there!"

"Liar!"

"Fraud!"

"Supercilious embersill!"

"You can't even say 'imbecile' correctly!"

There was a bellow from the field of "Just  _kick_  him already," followed by a frigid silence from the announcers' booth.

" _Thank_  you, Miss Griffiths," Idris Baulch said coldly. "Shouldn't you be attempting to catch the Snitch? Don't let me distract you, however! Continue your insults!"

The green-clad Seeker blew a kiss in the direction of the announcer's booth, and then was nearly run down by a Bludger. She veered sharply upwards and paused to survey the field. Two other figures flew below her, one in green and one in red, both wielding bats and in pursuit of the errant Bludger. With scarcely a pause for hesitation, Miss Glynnis Griffiths dove to join them. There was a brief scuffle--

"Vat is that?" von Roethlisberger bellowed. "Vat? Referee! Vinkler! Viiiiinkleeeeer!"

Baulch glowered. "Don't be absurd, what do are you complaining about? That was perfectly legal--well done, Miss Lello!"

"She cobbed! Cobbing! Cobbing! Vinkler!"

"That was not cobbing! That was not cobbing! It's not her fault that the blasted Harriers are playing as though this were a game of Shuntbumps!"

Another Bludger went whizzing past the head of the Harpies' Seeker, necessitating a rather snazzy roll of almost three hundred and sixty degrees on her part to avoid it. There was a smattering of applause from the stands; some small girls (well, smallish--larger than Idris' granddaughter, certainly) towards the front were clapping their hands and jumping up and down. Idris Baulch, however, was almost purple with fury.

"Shuntbumps!" he screamed again. "This is not Shuntbumps, Winkler, do you hear me? Miss Morgan,  _stop that Quaffle_!"

"Vat is this 'hunt-bombs' you accuse us of?" Adelheid von Roethlisberger snapped. "I haff never heard of such a thing! Cobbing! Cobbing! That Seeker vas cobbing!"

"She was not--she  _was not_  cobbing! You were not cobbing, Miss Griffiths! Don't listen to the woman, she's mad! And German!"

"Hunt-bombs? Ve haff no bombs! Ve are not Grindelwald here! If there are bombs, you English brought them!"

"Welsh! We are Welsh! Welsh! Not English! Welsh! Can't you get it through your blasted head?"

"Hunt-bomber!" von Roethlisberger retorted.

"Hunt what? I haven't bombed  _anything_! I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, you horrid old hag! The only thing I'd like to bomb is the pitch, if Miss Jones doesn't--It's Williams with the Quaffle, well done Mrs. Williams, oh that blasted German idiot--"

"Yes! Yes! Kriebl has the Quaffle! Now Diffenderffer! Klopsch! Kriebl! Klopsch!"

"What the hell are you young ladies doing? This is not a  _tea party_! Honestly Miss Jones, the Bludger can't have hurt  _that_  much! Yes, Mrs. Williams, thank you! Oh, bravo, Miss Davies, I see we've decided to pick up the Bludger again! Remembered our job description, have we?"

"Blatching! That woman blatched!"

"Miss Jones did no such thing! Carry on, Miss Jones! Any idiot could see that she didn't blatch! That wasn't blatching!"

"She blatched!"

"You have all of the intelligence of an Erumpet during mating season, madam!"

"At least I do not  _smell_  like one!"

Out on the field, a green-robed figure sent a Bludger at a red-robed figure, which promptly dropped the Quaffle.

"Foul!" Adelheid von Roethlisberger screamed. "Foul!"

"That was not a foul!" Baulch bellowed. "It was a perfectly valid--duck, Mrs. Williams! In the name of everything you hold holy--duck!"

One of the green-clad players ducked. Von Roethlisberger scowled.

"Miss Davies," Baulch called, "is that a Bludger or a nail file? It is a Bludger, Miss Davies! Kindly treat it as such!"

A small figure on the field made an obscene gesture in the direction of the announcer's booth. Idris Baulch closed his eyes and sighed.

"I saw that, Miss Lello," he said, his voice heavy with the world-weariness of the father of a soldier in the Mooncalf Liberation Front. "Don't think I didn't see that, because I did."

Anyone watching the game with Omnioculars would have noticed the small figure's mouth moving in a way that would suggest it was bellowing, "Sod you!" Fortunately enough, the announcers were not close enough to see it.

A Bludger came pelting towards the announcer's booth. Baulch would have ducked, but not with von Roethlisberger sitting there. Luckily one of the Germans came zooming up to knock it away.

"Stop that, Miss Griffiths; this is not a demonstration of flying prowess. Find the Snitch, please, not the Bludgers--are you wearing a magnet? What is wrong with--duck! Duck, dammit, duck!"

 

* * *

There was a thud. Rudolf winced as Karl Klopsch, Quaffle under one arm, sharply veered upwards and over the head of one of the interchangeable green-robed Chasers. Miraculously enough, he kept the Quaffle and leveled off, dodging a small green-robed figure (presumably the smaller of the Harpies' two Beaters) and swooping past another blonde Chaser.

The small Harpy did not, as perhaps she might have earlier in the game, rush off in pursuit of Klopsch. She had seemed unaccountably tired this morning, perhaps because she had been chasing small boys up and down the stands earlier in what Rudolf had assumed was some bizarre British form of calisthenics. Her captain should have put a stop to that. Rudolf himself would occasionally draft the local citizenry to follow his players about during the breaks and make sure they didn't break anything which could be neither fixed nor paid for before the game resumed. The Harpies' lovely captain seemed to be a sensible sort. She should institute a similar program.

On the other hand, the Beater's fatigue meant that she wasn't trying to hit his players with her bat, so perhaps he should be thanking whatever deity watched over Quidditch that the Morgan woman  _hadn't_  instituted such a practice.

The Chaser Klopsch had just passed turned her head and bellowed something. Klopsch didn't falter, but towards his right, the other green-robed Beater took careful aim and then hit a Bludger straight at Dietrich Diffenderffer, who had been shadowing Klopsch from below.

Dietrich, just as he'd done a couple of days ago--when had that been?--took evasive action by moving upwards, and Rudolf winced as the inevitable happened: Klopsch veered to avoid a collision, and a blonde stole the Quaffle.

It was because Dietrich was so short; that was the trouble. He'd gotten used to being able to fly lower to the ground than anyone else, and he was light enough that he could fly high without much difficulty; hence most of his movement was vertical. Rudolf had warned him about it. Dietrich had listened. But instincts died hard, and the Harpies had noticed, apparently.

A Bludger came zooming towards the blonde with the Quaffle; without so much as a pause she dropped the Quaffle and pulled her broom sharply upwards. Below her, another blonde grabbed the Quaffle and continued on her merry way. It took Klopsch and Diffenderffer several seconds to realize what had happened and make appropriate adjustments.

Another Harpy Chaser dive-bombed them. They scattered to opposite sides of the field. Rudolf winced. The Quaffle-carrier was almost at the scoring area, where the hell were Kriebl and the Beaters?

A loud bellow gave him at least one answer: Reinhard Kriebl, God's gift to witches, hair streaming behind him, mouth wide open, a wild look in his eyes, howled wordlessly and flung himself towards the Quaffle-bearer as though he hoped to batter her to death with his broomstick. She took one look at him, tightened her grip on the Quaffle, and flew away. Kriebl did not follow. Another blonde joined the one with the Quaffle as Kriebl began to fly in front of the goals in a figure-eight pattern.

Rudolf eyed him balefully.  _He_  was the Keeper, not Kriebl. The way Kriebl flew, Rudolf would very likely end up tripping over him, either literally or metaphorically, when the Quaffle actually got thrown at them. Rudolf would have yelled at him to stop cluttering the goal area, but Kriebl was still bellowing--a sort of wild war-yell of ululation and nonsense syllables. Alberich had probably put it best when he'd asked Kriebl after a match about three months ago, "Were you trying to summon the cows or win the tri-national yodeling contest?"

They'd had to pry Kriebl off of him using a plank and several full mugs of butterbeer, but it had been worth it.

Rudolf could dimly hear the blondes arguing about something, but he couldn't hear what. Kriebl's terrible--in so many ways--yodeling was practically deafening. Yet another reason to look into the legality of using muzzles on the pitch.

The blondes didn't seem to be doing much, though, just hovering in mid-air. Rudolf glanced around for his Beaters, keeping one eye on the Harpies' Chasers.

There seemed to be a slight disagreement between Einbund, Falck, and the two Harpies over who should get the Bludgers. One Bludger was pelting down towards the other end of the field, with Falck and a Harpy in fierce pursuit, while Einbund, damn his idiotic little soul, was sitting midway, yelling insults at the other Harpy, who had a Bludger that she seemed to be keeping in firm hand. She was ignoring him. She probably didn't even speak German. Her lips were moving, although strangely, and Rudolf finally realized that she was singing a little song to herself. (It was, in fact, the seventh-year Ravenclaw fight song, which, roughly translated, went: "We shall eat their entrails for lunch, hurrah, entrails for lunch, hurrah, oh, Professor Ludgershall is an idiot, entrails for lunch, hurrah hurray." It had been banned from the stands when Professor Ludgershall found out about it, but he'd been unable to hear the Quidditch  _players_.)

Rudolf returned his attention to the two Harpies, who were still just sitting there. Klopsch and Diffenderffer were looking somewhat uncertain about what to do. Diffenderffer was scratching his head. He was ordinarily the most intelligent of the three Chasers--not that that was saying much--but the idea of attacking a girl who was just sitting there, whether or not she had the Quaffle, seemed to be confusing him. The trouble with Diffenderffer was that, when confused, he had a tendency to sit and think the problem out. This was probably why he was generally the one who ended up unconscious during bar brawls, even if one of the Beaters had started the fight.

 _Lieber Gott_ , Kriebl  _had_  to run out of breath  _sometime_.

Either God was feeling merciful today, or the firewhiskey Rudolf had noticed Kriebl surreptitiously guzzling five minutes before the resumption of play this morning had finally taken its toll on the man's vocal cords, because Kriebl stopped yelling.

Rudolf had just taken in a deep breath to issue instructions to his Chasers when a loud noise from the stands indicated that a goal had just been made. He looked back at the two Harpies. They were still sitting there. They'd moved to either side so that they were now about a meter apart, but other than that, they hadn't moved.

Rudolf cursed.

"They moved to either side," Alberich said helpfully, from Rudolf's elbow (how the hell had he gotten there?), "and then dropped the Quaffle, and the third one caught it and threw it in the goal over there while Reinhard was yodeling."

The third Chaser emerged from the scoring area, Quaffle under one arm, a serene expression on her face. She tossed her head, flipping her ponytail from one shoulder to the other, and threw the Quaffle at one of her teammates.

"Alberich," Rudolf said, as calmly as he could manage considering that the Harpies' Chasers were now lining up to take another shot at the goals, "if you don't get out of my way _right now_ , I will be forced to harm you."

"I hear and obey, my Captain!" Alberich said, and bolted off, presumably in pursuit of his current love interest, who was doing God-only-knew-what somewhere far away from his scoring area. Perhaps having a little chat with her captain. If Rudolf had not been captain, and his captain had looked like their captain did, he probably would have gone to chat with her, too. He probably would have committed fouls just to get lectured.

Unfortunately, to join the Harpies he would have had to remove bits that he would rather hold onto, so that particular route was straight out.

A Bludger came at his head. Rudolf ducked. One of the blondes threw the Quaffle, but this time he was ready for it. He snatched it out of the air in a textbook-perfect grab and tossed it at Kriebl. It hit Kriebl in the head, but the man didn't so much as bat an eyelash before tucking the Quaffle under his arm and flying away. Thank goodness Kriebl had a head so heavy it might as well have been full of rocks. There were advantages to stupid players.

His side of the field was rapidly left empty as Kriebl soared towards the Harpy end. The stands were cheering wildly. Some adolescent girls were screaming "Gi-ant spi-ders, gi-ant spi-ders!" and Rudolf wondered if there was some sort of English slang phrase he didn't know about.

Or perhaps there  _were_  giant spiders. He glanced around uneasily. Some of the Chasers were rather unnerving. Diffenderffer claimed that one of them had been planning some sort of "slaughter on the pitch" several days ago, while another one had been seen quarrelling with Darren O'Hare. The Harpies hadn't played the Kestrels recently, so it must be personal, or possibly based on some sort of disagreement over Quidditch theory. Either prospect was rather worrisome. O'Hare was a good solid player if ever Rudolf had instructed his Beaters to maim one at any cost. (They had been unsuccessful. The Kestrels had some horrid little Beater who was about the size of Rudolf's thumb who seemed to have an uncanny knack for 'accidental' cobbing.)

He wouldn't put introducing giant spiders to the pitch past these awful women. God knew that it couldn't be much worse than some of the other things Alberich's frustrated stalking victims had resorted to.

If only his own supporters had been slightly more enthusiastic. It was always a trial getting people to show up to games in other countries, and there had been some sort of portkey mix-up, and then, of course, they had had to share the stands with the Welsh people so that the dragon-keepers could have the German stands. Then there was all of this business about the dragon. That might have discouraged people a bit. However, there hadn't been any sign of the dragon except at least half-a-dozen dragon-keepers with large pieces of machinery. Rudolf was beginning to doubt the existence of any runaway dragon. The dragon-keepers didn't seem to have done anything so far except flirt with Harpies. Rudolf couldn't really blame them, of course, but they did seem to be flirting with the Beaters. If he'd felt more kindly towards them he would have warned them about that. He stayed away from Beaters as a general rule, and he'd instructed his players to do the same. It was all too easy to disguise revenge as fouling when you had Bludgers at your disposal.

In all honesty, the biggest problem so far, besides the absence of the Snitch, had been that Hartwig Falck was married to a werewolf and hadn't seen fit to share this fact with anyone else. Would it really have been that difficult? "Oh, by the way, captain, Hati has to go home before the full moon--otherwise she'll try to eat us." But that would have required brainpower and consideration for other people, both of which Hartwig rather lacked.

It did explain a lot of the rumors surrounding the Falcks' polite little suburban cottage, though. That place had always seemed to have more than its fair share of ghosts, and there had been all those rumors about Falck's great-grandfather and the succubus... Finding a werewolf in a family like that shouldn't really have been so surprising.

A Bludger came veering towards his head. Rudolf ducked. Dietrich Diffenderffer stole the Quaffle from a blonde and bolted back down to the Harpy end of the field. The game was moving quickly. Quite remarkable, actually--they'd been playing for days now, they'd had all sorts of drama off the field, and yet his players weren't tired yet.

Well, not too tired. If they'd kept their eardrums from being shattered by Kriebl's yodeling they might last indefinitely.

Of course, so would the women, apparently, which sort of negated the benefits. Rudolf sighed and returned his attention to the pitch, scanning for Alberich and his Welsh counterpart. If only Alberich would stop stalking the woman and catch that damned Snitch soon...

There was a smallish knot of players about halfway down the field and to the side closest the stands. Rudolf squinted. Damn them--why weren't captains allowed Omnioculars? He didn't have superhuman sight, for God's sake! He couldn't make them out properly. Diffenderffer was somewhere in there... and Alberich? Where was Alberich? People were yelling. Everyone in the stands was jumping up and down trying to get a clear look. For God's sake what was happening? What was going on? He could hear people saying things but he couldn't quite hear what.

Then one voice rang, clear and loud and very, very horrified, over the din.

"That's not our Seeker! That's a duck!"

Rudolf let out a howl of despair.

 


	16. A Duck by any other Name...

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (16/?)

 **Author Name:**  Tess

 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)

 **Category:**  Humor/Romance

 **Keywords:**  Quidditch, Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers, dragons

 **Spoilers:**  All four books, I guess-- and  _definitely_  both schoolbooks

 **Rating:**  PG

 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?

 **Disclaimer:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:**  With gratitude to Faith Accompli, Fiat Incantatum, Malecrit, Narcissa Malfoy, Rabican, and Rilina, who helped me... name the duck, so to speak. Thanks also to those who reviewed since the last chapter: Fiat Incantatum, FyrDrakken, Lieutenant Hera, Malecrit, Narcissa Malfoy, Nentari, PeanutGallery, and sabrina weasley.

 

* * *

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER 16: A DUCK BY ANY OTHER NAME...**

"That is  _not_  a duck," Enid snapped. "It's a member of the species aviae, of course, but I think it's some sort of emu."

"Oh, bugger off!" Mari howled, diving for said emu.

"It's not a duck at all!" Angharad Rees called, from over by the emu. "It's Glynnis!"

"Well, obviously!" Mari snarled. "It's riding her bloody broomstick, it either  _is_  Glynnis or it  _ate_  her."

"No," Angharad said, "it didn't eat her. I would have seen it if it did, and it didn't."

A hysterical voice was issuing from the other end of the field. "There is no time out! There is no time out! They've got the Quaffle, you fools!"

"We're supposed to be playing?" Mari screamed, sounding a trifle hysterical.

"But Glynnis is a penguin!" Angharad wailed.

"For the last bloody time, she's an emu!" Enid snarled. "Or possibly some variety of ostrich, I can't tell."

The voice that issued from the announcer's booth was several octaves higher than should be humanly possible, at least for someone who had managed to sire three children. "Time out!" it screamed. "Indisposition of Seeker! In the name of all that is good and holy,  _time out_!"

Winkler blew his whistle and was nearly knocked off his broomstick by Gwendolyn Morgan, who had made straight for him and proceeded to hug him hard enough that he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

"I think Baulch tore out his vocal cords with that announcement," Enid said. "I hope the mediwizard's somewhere nearby."

"Why are you an emu?" Angharad asked the bird. "It's not really a very attractive bird, Glynnis, I mean really."

Mari's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I think we know why," she said. "I certainly do."

"Need any help?" Enid asked.

"They're  _my_  brothers,  _I_  get to kill them. You, er, make sure that nothing happens to Glynnis."

Enid nodded and looked back at the bird. It had managed to stabilize Glynnis' broom through grasping it with its feet and flapping its wings.

"I think emus are supposed to be flightless," she said. "Um... but you're doing really well, and you're not a real emu, so just keep it up, yes? I, uh, really don't want to have to try and carry you."

The bird gave her a dirty look.

"Ew, look at its head feathers," Angharad said. "That's why it's Glynnis, it has her hair."

"Don't attack her, don't attack her," Enid said quickly. "You'll fall off your broomstick, it's not worth it,  _please_  don't attack her."

Something in the bird's eyes promised that the attacking would definitely come after a resumption of human form.

"I think you should moisturize more," Angharad said thoughtfully. "If your skin were a little better you might have been something pretty, like a swan."

"A swan would have pecked your eyes out by now, Angharad," Enid said. "They're nasty little buggers, swans."

"She wouldn't  _really_  be a swan, she'd be  _Glynnis_ ," Angharad said, in an "isn't-this-obvious-you-idiot" tone of voice.

"People in animal form take on some of the characteristics of the animal," Enid said. "That's part of why being an Animagus is so dangerous." She gave Glynnis a reassuring smile. "Of course the emu is a very intelligent bird," she said warmly, "so you don't have anything to worry about."

Actually emus were quite stupid, but it was best not to worry Glynnis with these sorts of minor details. Anyway Enid was relatively sure that Glynnis didn't know much about emus. Enid didn't know much about emus, actually, so it was a good bet that Glynnis didn't either.

The Germans were coming towards them. Enid casually moved herself in between the emu and the German Beaters. Her club was good and heavy if it should become necessary to throw it at them. Or, for that matter, at Glynnis, who might be an emu but undoubtedly had all her priorities in the right place.

Winkler and Gwendolyn followed the Germans. Winkler was looking a bit flushed and he was flying as far away from Gwen as he could without being too conspicuous. He wasn't stooping, though, so the fervent embrace probably hadn't cracked any ribs.

"What happened?" Winkler almost wailed.

"Fruit punch, I think," Enid said.

Winkler stared at her.

"Fruit punch?" Gwen said.

"Or lemonade," Enid said defensively. "Look, I don't know, we didn't get a close look at it."

"Do you know what caused this, then, Miss Davies?" Winkler said severely.

"Um... I have my suspicions," Enid said. Gwen gave her a sharp look. One did not withhold information from the captain when one's Seeker had just been turned into an emu. If it wasn't in the rule book, they would probably add it. God knew they had added everything else, from "Beaters' bats shall not be used to give the opposing Seeker a concussion" to "the Keeper shall not Transfigure himself or herself into a bear and attempt to eat opposing Chasers mid-game."

"What suspicions?" Gwen said.

"Um..." Enid said. Winkler looked suspiciously attentive. "Er... You know... that Mari and I are such suspicious types! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Are you hysterical?" Gwen said. "Glynnis, don't--What is she, anyway?"

"An emu," Enid said. "At least I think she's an emu."

"I think she has a faint look of a Diricawl about her," Winkler said thoughtfully, then recollected himself. "If you have any knowledge of what has happened to Miss Griffiths, Miss Davies, it is in her--and everyone's--best interests that you share it with the lawfully appointed representative of the International Quidditch Federation, namely me."

"It's not knowledge per se," Enid said carefully.

"Enid, stop larking about and spit it out," Gwen snapped. "And where's Mari gone?"

"Mari's... pursuing her investigations."

"Miss Davies, if you don't stop talking in riddles I'm going to have to--"

"Oh, my God," Gwen said. All the color had drained from her face. "My sister and Susan Griffiths were saying--"

"Really?" Enid said quickly. "How very interesting. Why don't you go and consult with Mari?"

"I'm going to kill them," Gwendolyn said, eyes narrowed. "I'm going to kill them slowly. I'm going to kill them painfully. I'm going to kill them  _often_. Better yet, I'll have the girls do it. Do excuse me."

Enid became aware that her grip on her broomstick was so tight that her hands were hurting. Carefully she pried her fingers up as Gwen flew away. Enid turned back to the emu, who seemed to be looking slightly happier, inasmuch as an emu could.

"There, isn't that nice?" she said. "The girls will take care of revenge for you, and all you have to worry about is, um, becoming human again."

The emu snapped its beak at her. Enid sighed.

"Look, Glynnis," she said, "you're a giant bird, all right? It's rather hard not to patronize a bird."

"I had a budgie once," Angharad said.

"Was his name Fluffy?" Enid asked. Her budgie had been named Fluffy, much to her secret shame. She'd been several years older when she'd gotten her first owl, and by then she had learned her lesson; she'd named her owl Hypatia of Alexandria the Second. It had fit right in at the Ravenclaw dorms, and in fact had conducted a bit of a romance with Claudius Ptolemy VII.

"No, it was 'Angharad,'" Angharad said.

"But...  _your_  name is Angharad."

"It's such a pretty name," Angharad explained, beginning to twirl the end of her ponytail around her finger. "If Glynnis' name were Angharad, maybe she wouldn't be an emu."

"If Glynnis hadn't been stupid enough to drink anything touched by Mari's brothers..." Enid muttered.

The emu glared at her. She shut up.

"Would someone please explain to me what is happening?" Winkler snapped. The dangerous trembling of his voice suggested that in a few minutes it would be soaring into the upper registers like a disobedient choirboy's, and then all Hell would break loose. "Was it the Harriers or wasn't it? And if it wasn't who was it? I'm quite sure that igloos are not allowed on the Quidditch pitch, so if you press me, Miss Davies, a suspension of Miss Griffiths for the duration of her--her iglooness can be arranged!"

Angharad sighed. She gave Winkler the very, very patient look of someone speaking to the mentally deficient. "I had a budgie once," she said, slowly and clearly. "It was called 'Angharad,' like me."

"Who did it?" Winkler almost screamed. "Who did it? Who did it? I'm warning you--"

"Lemonade," Enid said quickly. "It was the lemonade--at least I think it was."

Winkler closed his eyes. He took several slow, deep breaths. Enid cringed in anticipation. Winkler's voice, when he spoke, was calm, slow, measured. The cadences were positively rhythmic.

"Who gave Miss Griffiths the lemonade, Miss Davies?"

"Um, small boys," Enid said.

Winkler's eyes snapped open. "Small boys?" he said in a normal tone of voice. "Whose?"

"Well... probably Mari's."

"Miss Lello has small boys?"

"Brothers," Enid said.

"So... it wasn't sabotage?"

"No, no more so than they usually do, anyway. I mean, they'd have done it to anyone, I suspect. Glynnis just happened to be there. She really shouldn't have drunk the lemonade."

The emu glared at her.

"Oh, shut up, Glynnis," Enid said. "Anyone with half an ounce of sense wouldn't have drunk anything touched by the Lello boys until they'd tested it. And I don't mean making them drink it first, either; they've been known to give themselves the antidote."

"Obviously young men with a great future working for Zonko's," Winkler said heavily. "Has Miss Morgan gone to kill them?"

"Yes," Enid said promptly.  _That_  one she could answer.

"Good. Then I needn't bother. Will they know how to undo the spell?"

"Erm, that one's rather a puzzler," Enid said.

Winkler swore. Enid choked.

"Mr.  _Winkler_!" she said.

"Oh, don't 'Mr. Winkler' me, Miss Davies. I've heard Miss Lello shrieking things that would make a sphinx blush, it's a bit late to pretend any of you lot have any scrap of  _normal human sentiment_  left!" His voice had climbed into dangerously wobbly registers with each successive word.

Enid eyed him carefully and then moved several steps back.

"Um," she said. "That's nice."

"Now," Winkler said, managing to speak in normal tones, "if you will excuse me, I am going to go and compose an owl to my superiors in which I attempt to convince them that I am in no way responsible for the complete and utter breakdown of the natural order on this Quidditch pitch! See to that gannet, Miss Davies!"

"She's an emu!" Enid called after him, but Winkler, striding determinedly off the pitch, did not so much as turn back. Enid sighed, and patted the emu on the head. It snapped at her hand.

"Oh, stop that, Glynnis," she snarled.

 

* * *

"I thought it was Alberich!"

"They were shouting in English," Diffenderffer said reasonably. Rudolf shot him a dirty look.

"We should be discussing tactics, anyway," he said. "We have such a chance here--Alberich, pay attention--as long as their Seeker is a bird, if they cannot turn her back, they will be unable to catch the Snitch. Alberich, you must catch the Snitch while she is--Alberich, are you listening? Alberich, stop staring at that bird!"

"But she is such an attractive bird."

"Alberich, she tried to bite your head off."

"But to die at the point of such a beak--ah, what rapture! I am in ecstasies just thinking of it!"

"Rudolf's going to make you clean your own robes if you do that," Kriebl warned. "We've had Team Lectures about it." He paused to look as virtuous as he could manage, which was not very. Perhaps, his appearance suggested, he would only sack a very small village, and certainly not on a Sunday. " _I_  paid attention," he added smugly. "Perhaps you should have paid attention, Alberich?"

Kriebl got so few chances to play captain's pet, Rudolf reflected. He should allow the man this small glory. There was certainly no reason to go into Kriebl's own role in making said lecture ("I am not here to clean  _that_  off your robes, nor are the team's house-elves! If you're going to do  _that_  in your robes you can clean it off yourself!") necessary. He should just let it pass. Certainly Alberich was letting it pass. Alberich was letting everything pass that didn't directly concern insane British women, Seekers, and very attractive ducks.

Alberich clasped his hands at roughly chest-level and smiled dreamily up at the sky, looking frighteningly like Brunhilde von Kurtz playing Queen Urgh in the seventh-year Durmstrang production of  _The Tragic Romance of Blog the Bearded_. The flowing Quidditch robes didn't help the image any.

"She is a bird," Alberich said happily, "like the goddess which she is."

"I'm losing you here," Rudolf said.

"Even as the veela--"

Rudolf attempted to picture the Harpies' Seeker as she had been in humanity. Green robes, obviously; curly hair; firm jaw; steely eyes. The woman had a cackle which could be used to clean cauldrons. He winced just remembering it.

"Er... veela?" he said doubtfully.

Judging from the blank and somewhat worried expression on Kriebl's face, portions of his brain had fused together while trying to make the same connection. "What, the crazy woman?" Kriebl said.

Alberich continued to ignore him. "Has she not charm, my captain?"

 _Charms_ , Rudolf thought. Yes, certainly, she almost certainly knew Charms. That's what he'd been worried about for most of the game. Charms, and her knowledge of them. Added to her inevitable irritation with and hatred for Alberich, of course. But it all boiled down to Charms knowledge and her possession thereof. Charm... was slightly less self-evident.

"The charm of a very veela, my captain!" Alberich continued.

Kriebl rubbed his head, then raised his hand. "My head hurts," he said, sounding like an unhappy four-year-old.

Rudolf sighed. "Go and sit down, Reinhard, and I will have the mad English mediwizard bring you some ice."

Kriebl sat down.

"No, further away," Rudolf said. "Go until you can't hear Alberich anymore."

Kriebl moved two centimeters further and sat down again. Rudolf sighed and gave up.

"The veela transform into birds," Alberich said happily.

Rudolf looked at him. "Yes," he said slowly. "They do."

"As a veela, she transforms herself into a bird--"

"I didn't get the impression her transformation was voluntary, Alberich."

"It is her spirit! The bright veela-ness of her spirit!"

"You do remember the last time you fell in love with a veela, right?" Rudolf said cautiously.

Alberich waved this off. "It was only a minor concussion!"

"We could see your brain!" Klopsch objected.

Rudolf closed his eyes. "No, Karl," he said.

"It was all white and covered in blood!"

"That was his ear, Karl."

"Whatever it was, it was pretty damn bloody!"

"Yes, Karl, it was, perhaps because  _his head had been split open_."

"Pah!" Alberich said. "Nothing! A few Reparo charms and it was all better!"

"You thought you were a small Diricawl born on an Unplottable island somewhere off the coast of Peru," Rudolf pointed out. "You kept trying to mate with the stuffed vulture on some poor woman's hat."

Alberich sniffed. "Stress," he said.

"What stress? The other team was fielding a Seeker who was so near-sighted he kept trying to catch the Bludgers!"

"And the Beaters thought that my head was... something very attractive!"

"Well, they weren't trying to hit you when you were crooning love poetry to that poor stuffed bird."

"Did you know that 'bird' is slang for 'girl' in England?" Alberich sighed happily. "It is so very appropriate."

"You're in love with a turkey, Alberich," Rudolf said. "I can see why you'd think so."

"But she is such an attractive turkey!"

 

* * *

"Gwen? Gwen, have we made any progress on the, the, you know, the situation?"

Enid had secured a bag of Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans from Gwen's Uncle Hippo and she was eating them like popcorn. She was going to end up fat and bloated, but that was better than worried and preoccupied, at least when your career involved Bludgers.

"Yes," Gwendolyn said. She had her clipboard out again. This was probably a good sign. "Spoke with the girls. They're tracking down the Lello boys and murdering them. Gwyneth was making siege plans last I heard--there's some wonderful girl from Ottery St. Catchpole who was suggesting boiling pitch. I don't know what's happened to Gryffindors since my day. I suppose they've been picking tricks up from the Slytherins."

"That's nice," Enid said feebly.

"Right. So they've got that handled, and then I spoke with Darren who went and tracked down one of the Lello boys and managed to extract the ingredient list. They think it will be over in about an hour, but of course we really can't wait that long."

"Why are we going after them if they can't fix it?"

"Revenge, of course, Enid, don't be slow. We're already short a player without your mind going wandering. Now, Darren thinks he's got an antidote and he's Flooing over to some of his old classmates from Slytherin who are working for Zonko's; they've got a similar product undergoing testing at the moment, he thinks. He should be back in about--" Gwen consulted her watch, "three minutes, and then we'll go from there. Of course, if Glynnis isn't back, our entire strategy's going to change, which is why I'm actually rather glad you're here."

"Oh?" Enid said. She popped another bean into her mouth and spat it out again. Earwax. She  _hated_  earwax.

"Yes, because it mostly involves the Beaters. Now, what I want you and Mari to do is maim that Seeker."

"Beg pardon?"

"I don't care what you have to do, I want him wounded, or, if necessary, dead."

She sounded so calm, Enid reflected. So very calm, and yet so very, very serious. She swallowed the next bean without chewing and nearly choked. Gwen hit her on the back with the clipboard.

"It's very serious," Gwen said.

"Um, murder is a felony--"

"Not on the Quidditch pitch," Gwen said, still in utter seriousness. "It's almost always accidental, Enid, you know that. Of course I'm not going to force you to do anything you're uncomfortable with--"

"Good!"

"But you're going to need to get Bastnagel out of the game as quickly as possible and as thoroughly as possible. I don't care where you aim the Bludgers, I don't want you worrying about the Quaffle, I don't want you worrying about the Chasers. I want Bastnagel out of the game and I want him out of it fast."

"I got that, rather."

"Now, there is of course a flaw in this plan."

 _Only one?_  Enid thought, chewing a pepper-flavored bean with nary a single wince. She was numb to pain. Or she was going to be, by the time today was over. If Glynnis was out of commission for the rest of the day...

"I have the utmost confidence in your ability as Beater," Gwen said, "and you and Mari make an unbeatable team."

She clapped Enid heartily on the shoulder. Enid jumped.

"But, of course, those German bastards have Beaters too, and while they may be incompetent bastards, they're rather large."

"If this involves cheating you don't want to tell me," Enid said quickly. "I'm the world's worst liar. One glare from Winkler and I'll crumble and we'll get in all sorts of trouble and you don't want that, honestly. I don't care if you do it but I'm the last person you should tell about it. Telling me a secret is like telling an investigatory journalist, in strict confidence, that the Minister of Magic once had an affair with the Head Goblin of Gringotts' London branch: within three hours the wizards on small Pacific islands will know every single detail."

"Cheating never even crossed my mind," Gwen snapped.

"Oh. Good."

Gwen shook her head sadly. "I'm no good at it, Enid, I'm afraid. That's the simple truth. I could try, but this is where Glynnis usually comes into play. I remember our fourth year she--"

She brightened suddenly.

"Do you know," she said, "the worst case of cheating, I think, was when we were at Hogwarts--our fourth year, and someone hexed the broomsticks so that they--"

"Oh God," Enid said. "Oh no. No. I'm not going to help you with that. I mean, I know the charms, yes, of course, but I just--I won't be a party to that. I--I really couldn't have it on my conscience." Team loyalty forced her to add, somewhat feebly, "Anyway, I couldn't possibly find any badgers on such short notice, and we'd need at least half-a-dozen."

"Slytherin did that," Gwen said.

"I still don't know where they found the badgers," Enid said. "I mean, Bobby wanted to try it but he couldn't find the badgers and the rest of us didn't want to do it anyway. And Professor Ludgershall's gotten more vigilant since then--he didn't want any repeats, I suppose, and who can blame him? Of course the badger ban didn't help us any. I suppose that was Professor Ludgershall, too. The Hufflepuffs were very upset; they had this badger they liked to bring out and--"

"I don't think we'll need badgers," Gwen said. "Unless Darren says so."

"Darren?" Enid said. This whole conversation was reminding her painfully of Herbology, the one class she had barely managed to pass by the skin of her teeth or whatever the phrase was. Good Lord, she must be upset if she wasn't even thinking properly. She had another bean to calm her nerves. Ooh, strawberry.

"Yes, of course. If anyone would know he would. I suppose the Germans will have wards on their broomsticks. But if there's any sort of cheating to be done, Darren will know what it is."

"We can't cheat!"

"It's not really cheating," Gwen said firmly. "Glynnis is an auk."

"Emu," Enid said automatically.

Gwendolyn ignored her. "Once she's stopped being a bustard--"

"Emu."

"We'll stop."

"I don't like this."

"We'll have to wait until he gets back from Zonko's." Gwen checked her watch again. "Oh, good! Two minutes. I'll just walk over to the campfire and wait--"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"What? Never better."

Gwen's smile was so bright and innocent, so clear and happy, that Enid had to ask.

"You haven't taken anything, have you?"

"Oh, goodness, no. Just half a glass of punch--"

"What?"

"From my sister, and then of course that thing Morpheus Price made me swallow."

"What?"

"Morpheus Price, Enid, the mediwizard."

"Oh. What was it?"

"He said something about stress, for Heaven's sake. I mean, why shouldn't I be under stress? It's a Quidditch game, for God's sake. My Seeker's just been turned into a spoonbill!"

"Emu."

"So you understand the stress."

"This potion of his doesn't have side effects, does it?" Enid said. "Like mental derangement?"

Gwendolyn laughed heartily. "No, no, why should it? You just maim that awful little Harrier and Glynnis will stop being a cuckoo--"

"Emu."

"And everything will be back to normal." She trotted off determinedly.

"Hurrah?" Enid ventured.

 


	17. In Search of the Wild Snidget, Part One: Tracking It

**Title:**  Love on the Quidditch Pitch (17)  
 **Author name:**  [Tess](http://www.fictionalley.org/fictionalleypark/forums/member.php?action=getinfo&userid=222)  
 **Author email:**  [tessfawcett@yahoo.com](mailto:tessfawcett@yahoo.com)  
 **Category:**  Humor  
 **Sub Category:**  Romance  
 **Keywords:**  Quidditch Holyhead Harpies Zonko's jokes  
 **Rating:**  PG  
 **Spoilers:**  SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
 **Summary:**  1953. The Heidelberg Harriers, "fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever," versus the all-witch Holyhead Harpies, founded in 1203. It was just another Quidditch game... but it became legend. Heck, how could a seven-day game with captains proposing marriage, crazy announcers, dragons, and all sorts of other craziness not?  
 **DISCLAIMER:**  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
 **Author notes:**  With gratitude to all the reviewers since the last chapter-- it was, alas, such a long time ago that I can't remember all of you by name! Especial thanks to those who kept on my case consistently over the last few months (you know who you are), and I promise that the next chapter will not take so long.

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: IN SEARCH OF THE WILD SNIDGET, PART ONE: TRACKING IT**

Darren O'Hare had had a harrowing morning. One of his reserve Beaters had been caught snogging some girl in Bulgaria after the match, which wouldn't have been a problem except that his girlfriend had apparently been in the crowd. While she hadn't seen fit to bring this to Kettleburn's attention at the time, she  _had_  brought it to the attention of his wife. Next thing Darren knew he was getting frantic owls from the manager asking what they were going to do if the third arm didn't fall off before the next game. He'd received yet another owl first thing this morning pointing out that the arm was actually  _growing_  and St. Mungo's had said they'd have to wait until the thing fell off of its own accord, which had Kettleburn in a panic. He'd never known a Beater with as little ability to endure pain as Kettleburn.

The trouble with playing professional Quidditch was that one couldn't discuss these things with one's dear old friends and colleagues. All of Darren's dear old friends and colleagues played for League teams. Other League teams. Such as the Harpies. While of course one could depend on one's friends for help and support in the worst of situations, sometimes it was best not to place a bottle of butterbeer in front of an over-excited mooncalf; the only thing which could possibly result was trouble. They really didn't need to know about Kettleburn's third arm. Ordinarily he might have told Bronwyn, but she'd been so snippy about this whole Bulgaria thing--

Besides which, he somehow suspected that it was best if Bronwyn didn't learn too much about Kettleburn's extra-curricular activities. He'd been at school with Kettleburn, and while all of his old teammates and rivals had been very good about not mentioning the whole broom shed incident to Bron, it was inevitable that she find out eventually. He could spill it all then. No need to trouble her before then.

After all of this, of course, there had been the whole incident with Glynnis Griffiths turning into a duck, or a Fwooper, or whatever the hell she was turning into.

 _This_  definitely fell under the category of "Beyond Team Loyalty." Darren was relatively certain that there weren't any rules about the number of arms a Quidditch player could have, and anyway a third arm could only help Kettleburn's game (even if the location was rather awkward), but a Seeker, a full Seeker, who was an ostrich, was a different flock of Diricawls entirely.

The list with which Gwendolyn presented him was relatively straightforward. He hastily fired off an owl to the manager about Kettleburn (loose-fitting robes would solve at least one problem) and went in search of the Lello boys, whom he found with Bledri Jones underneath the bleachers. They looked faintly guilty. Bledri promptly faked an asthma attack and Darren sent him back to the tent. He didn't really like Bronwyn's little brother, but she didn't either, so it was probably all right.

The boys, lucky for them, did not prevaricate. A simple explanation that any sort of stalling would result in their sister being dispatched to their current location hadn't gotten much of a reaction, but when he'd pointed out that she was sure to catch at least one of them and they had no way of knowing which one it was going to be, they became very cooperative. He had to have them write down the list of ingredients, because he didn't know how to spell most of them. Unfortunately, to judge from the list, neither did they. How had a bunch of preadolescent boys gotten ahold of such things? Wasn't there some sort of law?

They were probably, he thought, using Glynnis' old sources. Poetic justice in the universe, yes!

List in hand, he headed towards Zonko's. Unfortunately, he was halfway to the public Floo fireplace when he realized that he was, in fact, asking his old friends and classmates to aid and succor Glynnis Griffiths, whom they still referred to, in freezing tones, as "That Woman."

That was the trouble, wasn't it? Hogwarts rivalries were, by nature, genial. Darren and Gwendolyn Morgan had hated each other all through school because that was what the Slytherin and Gryffindor captains did. Darren had once asked a frightened first-year to bring him her head on a platter, while, during her fifth-year, Gwendolyn had instructed one of her Beaters to "have O'Hare found and then hanged, drawn, and quartered by broomstick before the clock in the Arithmancy classroom strikes seventeen." This was all part of a perfectly normal, healthy rivalry, and when they had both left Hogwarts and joined the Quidditch League they had become fast friends based on the simple fact that both of them were very good at Quidditch and most other people weren't. This was simply the way things worked. Future Gryffindor captains would be able to reminisce dreamily about the time she managed to hurl a Quaffle across the field so hard that it would have given Darren a concussion if one of the Beaters hadn't managed to deflect it first, while future Slytherin captains would be able to complain that they didn't make opponents like they used to.

The trouble was Glynnis Griffiths, who felt that rules were made not to be broken but to be slowly tortured to death. She'd taken the rivalry at Hogwarts to a whole new level. Entire generations of Slytherin players had only to hear her name to begin frothing at the mouth. Nonetheless, the Quidditch Code remained, and she was now playing for the same National League that he was (albeit on different World Cup teams), and therefore everything at Hogwarts was left in the misty past.

However, none of his contacts at Zonko's were in the League. The Quidditch Code didn't apply. Hugo Pinninger had been a Chaser back when the Ink Incident, perpetrated by a much younger Glynnis Griffiths, had destroyed the nerves of a promising young third-year Seeker so severely that he had not been able to so much as look at a broomstick without weeping for nearly six years.

He'd have to be careful not to mention it was for Glynnis. He'd have to be very careful. Let anyone--  _anyone_ \-- mention that this work was being done in That Woman's service and Hugo would start offering aid to the enemy, and exactly what aid Hugo, a dedicated employee of Zonko's and a man with a mind so bendy it was very nearly its own ecosystem, could offer to the Harriers was not worth thinking about. Darren would have to be careful. He'd have to be resolved.

This was the level of resolution, in fact, that would require fortifying, preferably with some of the firewhiskey Gareth Williams kept hidden among the emergency cleaning supplies under the bed of his twelve-year-old brother-in-law, on the correct assumption that the boy would have nothing to do with such and Blodwen was far too obsessive to let the cleaning supplies in the hall closet run out. He'd originally kept them in a box of cornflakes, or had until the boy had managed to find them. He'd kept Darren updated on the location of the stuff, on the very reasonable principle that anyone married, or planning to be married, to a Jones sister would occasionally require artificial aid to his peace of mind.

Darren detoured to the tent. He fortified his resolution quite a lot and by the time he reached the public fireplace he was feeling somewhat woozy. He therefore approached Zonko's in a cheery frame of mind. He was here to help Gwendolyn! Lovely, lovely Gwendolyn Morgan, his biggest enemy from school and current dearest friend, one of the League's greatest captains, an all-around great girl! Gwendolyn! He could have sung! He settled for stumbling out of the Floo portal with a silly grin on his face and falling to the floor in front of a spotty-faced mediwizard who had been called in to help restore the missing feet of one of the product testers.

"We have to help her!" Darren bellowed to the floor tiles. "Under no circumstances can we allow them to fall behind in the League, or the Magpies will take the Cup-- _again_!"

This sort of thing was not unusual at Zonko's and the mediwizard would undoubtedly have passed him by had he not recently attended the match between the Wimbourne Wasps and the Kenmare Kestrels. He recognized Darren's voice from the obscenities which Darren, as a matter of course, screamed at the more incompetent of his two Beaters as the man sought to avoid concussing himself with his own bat.

Ten minutes and half-a-dozen Potions later Darren was vaguely able to recognize his own shoes, which seemed to be at the end of his legs, possibly on his feet, and he signed the mediwizard's poster of the Pride of Portree "Anna Q. Nilsson" before stumbling off in search of Hugo Pinninger. A duty was a duty, and as Captain and Keeper, Darren held his duties sacred.

He had only the vaguest of ideas as to where Hugo might be found. The discovery of a room, somewhere in the claustrophobic rabbit's warren of corridors that made up Zonko's Headquarters, labeled "Research and Development. Head: J. Iremonger. Researchers: S. Dowdeswell, X. Jellings, H. Pinninger, L. Smethwyck, J. Twort. Trainees: Q. Baragwaneth, P. Rackharrow, D. Strout," made the matter somewhat simpler. He opened the door. Cauldrons were resting precariously on cabinets and tables everywhere. The center of the room was occupied by a very large metal tank. Somewhat ominously, it was the only thing not smoking or bubbling in the room.

A purple man wearing nothing but a pair of Muggle bathing trunks fell on him and wrapped one arm, not quite affectionately, around his neck. "Strout, where the hell have you been? Sick grandmother my arse! And you did the rubber-face spell entirely wrong. I was at school with Darren O'Hare and he never looked so much a poleaxed git in his life!"

"I'll have you know that until fifteen minutes ago I was drunk," Darren said, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, "and I can't help looking poleaxed. As for looking like a git, I, at least, am the color I was born with."

The man took his arm away and stepped back, staring at Darren incredulously. "Darren? Darren O'Hare?"

"Seppy? Seppy Dowdeswell?"

"How are you doing, old man?"

"All right! Mostly! Slightly drunk still!"

"I can tell!"

"Really? How?"

"You're yelling."

"Oh. Sorry."

"What are you doing here? Step out of the way a second, old man--there you go--watch that, Baragwaneth, I'll have you know this is the captain of the Kenmare Kestrels and without him the Irish don't stand a chance, so don't you go spilling that on him."

"But I'm not Irish," complained a pimple-faced youth carrying a large cauldron. "I'm from Cornwall. I support the Falcons."

Darren opened his mouth. He shut it. He opened it. He shut it again. No sound was coming out. This was probably a good thing. At his last match against the Falcons two of his Chasers had ended up needing serious medical attention and he himself had been disciplined for trying to strangle the opposing captain, but in all honesty if ever a captain had asked for strangling it had been Tregunna, and how the referees had expected him to refrain from harming a man who had just sent a Bludger flying straight at a certain sensitive area of a defenseless Chaser who was two days away from his wedding was entirely beyond Darren.

"That," said Seppy, with great dignity, shaking his finger at the hapless boy, "is not a thing that is ever uttered within the confines of these walls."

"Twort supports Puddlemere and you don't say a thing to her," the boy said.

"Anyone saying anything to Josephine Twort she doesn't like has to watch out for their lunch suddenly turning into a toad," Seppy said, "and anyway, Josephine Twort knows better than to try and sabotage the opposing teams by dumping a cauldron of Dissolving Goo on their captains!"

Carefully, Darren edged away from the boy, trying to be inconspicuous about it. A captain of the League should show no fear in front of the public.

"I've half a mind to talk to Iremonger about this!" Seppy continued.

"But I wasn't trying to--"

"Enough! I've had enough of your paltry excuses! Take your Dissolving Goo and the anger in your heart to Josephine Twort, who will show you how to make Pacifying Pasties!" He looked back at Darren. "New invention," he explained.

"I'd forgotten you worked here," Darren said faintly. Some of the goo had slopped over the edge of the cauldron as Baragwaneth was scuttling off. It was green and Darren could swear the floor underneath it was melting. The spill was giving off fumes. He didn't even want to step  _over_  it.

"Used to work for Gambol & Japes, you know, but Zonko's lured me away. Twice the salary and they pay me in actual money."

"As opposed to...?"

"Products," Seppy said. "Mind you, I've probably got the world's best collection of joke wands now, but since re-selling items is prohibited without a retailer's license, I couldn't do anything with them. For a while there I was living on Colorizing Candy, and I have to say that, knowing what goes into that stuff, I wasn't too happy about it--and I was living in a Muggle lodging at the time, mind, so I used to have to drape a towel over my head and pretend to be a werewolf every time the landlady came by."

"She was Muggle and she believed in werewolves?"

Seppy shook his head. "She was a strange woman."

"How did you pay her?"

"Leprechaun gold."

"Seppy!"

"What? I know for a fact she put it in a box under her bed. She didn't try to use it for anything."

"Seppy, I'm ashamed of you."

"What? We were in Slytherin. What? What was I supposed to do? Starve to death on the streets?"

"Seppy, I'm... I have no words."

"That's a first."

"Seppy!"

"What?"

"Where's Hugo?"

"What, Pinny Pinninger?"

"You know how he feels about being called ïPinny.'"

"Why d'you think I do it? Oy, Pinny! Darren's here!" Seppy glanced around. "He might have stepped out for lunch. You want to come in and wait?"

"I'm already in," Darren pointed out. "Speaking of which... if I dare ask... why are you purple?"

"New product."

"Colorizing Candy?"

"Nah, that's a Gambol & Japes trademark, we haven't tried to imitate it yet--it's not a good enough seller, anyway, and half of the ingredients are things Iremonger won't have in the laboratory because they stink up the place and if you combine them with Tentacula root they become sentient. No, this was supposed to turn me into a fish."

"A fish?"

"I spent three hours swimming around in the tank and swallowing things they dropped down my throat and did anything happen? Not a bleeding thing. Here I am, purple and human as ever, so they told me to get out. Why else did you think I was running around in bathing trunks?"

"I certainly didn't assume it was because you were afraid of being naked," Darren said. "You streaked at all our Quidditch games. The only reason you didn't get points taken from Slytherin is that you had a paper dog over your head. I never understood that, by the way. Wouldn't a paper bag have been more sensible?"

"The dog was a political statement," Seppy said, "and the bathing trunks are because Josephine Twort threatened to hex off any visible bits she thought were inappropriate."

"Visible bits of what?"

"Me." He shook his head somewhat despairingly. Darren tried to remember what color Seppy's hair was normally. Surely not purple. "Regular Glynnis Griffiths, that girl."

"A word of advice," Darren said. "If she's a regular Glynnis"--horrible thought, but he must be natural; he musn't let Seppy suspect! "If she's a regular Glynnis, don't call her a girl where she can hear you."

"What am I supposed to call her, a--"

"It's degrading and implies an insult to her powers of reasoning," Darren said. "Bronwyn's always on about that."

"And what you're still doing with--"

"Just because you don't understand--"

"Darren, the woman's a raging maniac!"

"She is not! She's just--she's just passionate!"

Seppy held up a hand. "Darren, please, that's going into the realm of things I don't want to know about. All I'm saying is that Bronwyn is, well... as batty as Barney the Fruitbat after one too many Butterbeers, as nutty as a fruitcake cooked by a nut-obsessed housewife on a nut farm, and as single-minded as a Beater with three Bludgers, no partner, and half-a-dozen Chasers on the opposite team. That's all."

"I think you've said quite enough," Darren said, "especially considering that she's not purple."

"Well, if she worked here, being purple would be the least of her troubles," Seppy said. "Do you know I sprouted a third arm the other day?"

"So did one of my Chasers," Darren said gloomily. "He decided to start snogging some girl in Bulgaria--we were just in Bulgaria."

"Angry Bulgarian boyfriend?"

"No--Kettleburn's girlfriend was in the crowd, and she decided to bring up the matter... with his wife."

Seppy whistled. "Poor old Kettleburn."

"It's still there--St. Mungo's says we're going to have to wait until it falls off of its own accord. Our manager's worried about what we'll do if it's not before the next game."

"Can't be but useful, can it? I mean, a third arm..."

"Not where  _this_  one is."

Seppy considered it in a moment. He winced. "Until it falls off, you said? But what happens then to--"

"They didn't say."

"Remind me never to upset Mrs. Kettleburn," Seppy said.

"For God's sake don't tell Bronwyn," Darren said, remembering. "He was at school with us, you know, and if she finds out about it she'll go off at me and at him, and then he might mention the you-know."

"The what?"

"The... broom shed thing."

"What? She doesn't know about that yet?"

"No! And I'd prefer to keep it that way!"

"I'm surprised you managed to keep it quiet this long," Seppy said doubtfully. "It's the sort of thing I'd have thought she'd ferret out immediately. Didn't Blodwen tell her?"

"Blodwen doesn't know either!"

"I have to say, old man, you're taking a terrible risk."

"As compared to telling Bronwyn?"

There was a moment of respectful silence.

"Yes, you are rather between a rock and a hard place," Seppy said. "Er. Shall I give you a tour?"

"No," Darren said. "I need to find Hugo and get him back to the pitch."

"The pitch? What pitch?"

"I'm at a game."

Seppy looked at him. "No, you're in the Research and Development Department of Zonko's. Are you sure those sobering potions worked?"

"I was at a game."

"I'm surprised you left it. Didn't you always say at school that a captain's duty is to be on the pitch, in rain and in sun, in sickness and in health, in alertness and in unconsciousness?"

"I'm surprised you remember," Darren said irritably, "seeing as how you were always spending games prancing around the bleachers starkers."

"All I'm sorry for now is that Colorizing Candies hadn't been invented yet," Seppy said. "I'd have gone green and silver for Slytherin's honor."

"The only reason we didn't get points taken is that they didn't know what house you were from and the professors couldn't hex that damn paper dog off your head!"

"Yes, that was a stroke of good luck."

"Anyway, it's not my game, it's Gwendolyn's."

"Ah, Gwendolyn Morgan? How is the old girl? Charming girl, isn't she? I always follow her interviews. Do give her my best."

"G--ah, one of her teammates has been turned into a, turned into a something. I don't know what. Some sort of bird with a funny name."

"Speckle-breasted bumbird? Auk? Ostrich? Augurey?"

"Something like that. An emu, perhaps."

"Bad luck, old man."

"Well, I've never seen an emu, so how would I know if it's an emu or not?"

"I meant the girl being a bird. Who is it?"

"Oh, I don't remember... one of the Beaters perhaps... Anyway, it was accidental, and they can't turn her back, and I was hoping someone could come and, er, try things..."

"Do you know who did it?"

"Yes."

"List of ingredients?"

Darren dug it out of his pockets. Seppy studied it for a moment. He whistled. "What did this girl do, fall afoul of a gang of black marketeers?"

"Pre-adolescent boys."

"Precocious little sods, aren't they? What are they, Glynnis Griffiths' younger siblings?"

"Hardly. She's only got a younger sister."

"Poor Hogwarts. I hope the poor thing survives the latest Griffiths intake."

"She's a third-year and a very nice girl," Darren said stiffly.

"Well, I suppose she can't help who her relatives are. Who are they playing?"

"Harriers."

"French?"

"German, Seppy! The Heidelberg Harriers! Heidelberg! Germany!"

"Oh, right. Sorry. I've been busy lately. What with actually having money and being able to buy things, such as furniture, I haven't spent much time following Quidditch except when it's someone I know. Or someone particularly dishy. I say, it isn't that Chaser, is it? Rees?"

"Who? Oh, no. She's fine, so far as I know."

"She seeing anyone?"

"How should I know?" Darren said irritably. "Ask her yourself."

Seppy winced. "I'd love to, old man, but unfortunately Twort would have my head if I left. It's only been three hours, you see, and there's always the chance I'll turn into a fish sometime in the next four, so I've got to wait it out. Still, it's clearly an emergency. I'll see where old Pinny's got to. Um... don't touch anything while I'm gone."

Darren looked around the room. He looked down at the floor. The remnants of Baragwaneth's goo were still smoking.

"Right," he said.

 


	18. A Snidget in the Hand... Usually Bites It

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: A SNIDGET IN THE HAND... USUALLY BITES IT**

 

"It's a shame about that girl," Hugo Pinninger said. "Poor Morgan! She must be going mad! Such a nice girl at Hogwarts, I always thought. Always trying to kill you, of course, but that was a Quidditch thing." He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "What fools we were in those days! We took it all so seriously, didn't we?"

Darren stared at him blankly. "Well, yes, it's Quidditch," he said. "That's what you're supposed to do."

Hugo gave him a somewhat uneasy look. "Of course, of course," he said. "Anyway, how is Morgan?"

"Extremely upset," Darren said. "And who can blame her? They've been playing for nearly five days, the score is nearly tied, and Glynnis--" He stopped short.

"Well, Glynnis," Hugo said disgustedly. "She's probably been poking the poor bird with a stick. What more could you expect from Glynnis?"

"Er, actually," Darren said, and took refuge in what was, in the most literal sense, the truth, or at least part of it, "she hasn't been."

"Well, there's a surprise. Poor girl. One of the Beaters, you said?"

"I--rather think so."

Hugo gave him a careful look. "Darren, is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No?" Darren ventured.

"Look, Darren, I understand that you feel a certain--loyalty--to Bronwyn, but as your friend of many years' standing, I have to say that it would certainly be in your best interests to... well, to find someone else. If you and this girl have--something between you--I'm the last person who would tell you you're doing the wrong thing. I'd simply say that, as your friend, I feel that perhaps Bronwyn isn't the right person for you, and while certainly any distracting announcements would have to wait until the end of the game--"

"I'm not having it off with her!" Darren said, in absolute horror.

"Oh," Hugo said, sounding somewhat deflated. "I thought--well, you said you couldn't remember what position she played, and that's not like you, and I thought--"

"I'm just nervous!" Darren said, terror giving him courage.

"Oh. Sorry."

The best defense was a good offense; the Kestrels had been making good play out of that all season. Darren chose to take his own advice, and pressed on. "What has Bronwyn done to make you hate her?"

"Been Bronwyn," Hugo said.

"Hugo!"

"Darren, your life is about Quidditch."

"What else should it be about?"

"Well, exactly! You don't understand anything else! Nor should you! It's perfectly acceptable! You've always been like this--always  _will_  be like this--"

"And Bronwyn  _plays_  Quidditch."

"Bronwyn is  _jealous_  of your Quidditch."

"She is not."

"She throws temper tantrums every time the Kestrels play on the continent."

"That was once, and we were playing the Makhachkala Martins, and she was worried that we'd fly into the Indian Ocean. Mind you, considering how Savage was flying at the time, I would have--"

"All right, Darren. All right. Let's not argue about this." Hugo took down the last bottle and dumped it in the sack. "That should do it. We'll have this girl back to humanity in no time."

"Good," Darren said. "Um... do you actually have to be there for that part?"

Hugo gave him a strange look. "Well, it does generally require rather careful monitoring," he said.

"And someone else can't do that?"

"Not unless you want her to end up purple," Hugo said. "I don't think her boyfriend--not that I'm saying it's you, mind--would appreciate that."

"I don't think she's got a boyfriend," Darren said.

"Of course she doesn't," Hugo said, very gently.

"I mean, there are chaps who want to be her boyfriend," Darren said quickly, suddenly aware that most Quidditch players seemed to have boyfriends--at least all the ones he could think of at the moment--well, besides Gwen, but Gwen was above soppy things like romance; she was far too sound in her principles--and he didn't want to make Hugo suspicious. "One chap in particular--absolutely wild over her--quite distracting." That at least was true, although it wouldn't have been a week ago.

"Of course he is, Darren," Hugo said, quite tenderly for a former Slytherin who was trying to be in deadly earnest. "Of course he is."

"And it's not me!" Darren almost snarled.

"Of course it's not," Hugo assured him. "I believe you."

"Why on earth do you think I'd fall in love with some other woman?"

Hugo paused in the act of tying up his sack to consider the question. "Her flying, probably."

"As though anyone would look at anyone's flying when Gwen's defending the goals!" Darren said indignantly. "I mean, you have to admit she's more or less peerless for sheer grace of flight--the way she performs Johnson's Threefold Defensive Twirl ought to win an award--"

Hugo was giving him a very strange look. Then he collected himself and tied off the sack with an abrupt jerk of the twine. "I'm ready," he said.

"You aren't going to be like this in front of anyone, are you?"

Hugo shuddered. "Only if the Griffiths woman starts to bother me. You will keep her away, Darren? I can't guarantee my concentration if she's breathing down my neck."

"I'm relatively sure that she's just as eager for you to fix the bird as you are," Darren said cautiously.

"Well, if you say so. Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Shall we  _go_ , Darren. I assure you I know what I'm doing. It should be relatively simple."

"Good," Darren said, and led the way to the Floo portal.

Gwen met them on the other end, looking semi-hysterical with worry. "Darren? Oh, thank God. Enid, take Darren into the tent--hallo, Hugo--"

"Gwendolyn," Hugo said, thankfully remembering not to revert to the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch habit of surnames. (Glynnis had been, as always, a special case; somehow "Griffiths" had never seemed to fully express the depths of the Slytherin Quidditch team's feelings toward her.) "Good to see you."

"Can you fix her?" Gwendolyn demanded, ignoring, as usual, any sort of propriety.

"What?"

"Glynnis."

Darren froze.

"I'm afraid la Griffiths is entirely beyond my fixing, or that of mortal man entirely," Hugo said.

"Darren!" Gwen wailed, turning on him. "Darren, you said that Hugo could--what am I supposed to do without a Seeker?"

He patted her soothingly on the back and gave Hugo a stern and disapproving look. It worked, or the sight of the always-composed (and, in Hugo's Hogwarts experience, often insult-screaming) Gwendolyn Morgan close to tears did, because Hugo stepped up to his duties like a man.

"Well, really, Gwendolyn, I'm awfully sorry to see you like this, and of course I'll do anything I can. It's just that, as I'd think you would understand, Glynnis and I--well--what can I do? She's never been particularly human, has she?"

Gwendolyn stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Yes, but she's never had feathers before, has she?" She turned back to Darren. "Can he fix her or not?"

"He can fix her," Darren said, "can't you, Hugo?"

"Darren, I'm lost here, honestly."

"She doesn't have to be a bird any longer, does she?"

"No, of course not, that's what I'm here for--"

"Good, Enid will take you, I've got to go calm down Blodwen--muttering something about birthdays--I wish she'd behave herself, this is all just awful and Winkler's getting restless. Has anyone seen Mari?" Gwen took off at a determined trot. Her Beater Enid Davies watched her with a slightly wistful expression, like a child watching her last hope of a reprieve from the dentist's office vanish into the waiting room.

"But I don't understand what all this is about Glynnis," Hugo finished.

Enid Davies, one of Gwen's Beaters and a pretty, albeit unremarkable, girl, turned back to them, a mildly surprised expression on her face. Hugo automatically gave her an up-and-down, but thankfully she seemed less attuned to the process than most of her teammates and didn't notice. "Glynnis has been turned into an emu," she said. "At least I think it's an emu."

It took Hugo a moment to process the entirety of his betrayal. Darren wished he could run. His word. His word. He'd given his word. Couldn't let Gwen down, no, a fellow captain in distress, absolutely necessary to behave like a man about it--

"Glynnis," Hugo said flatly.

"Griffiths. She's our Seeker. She's a bit opinionated--"

"I know who she is."

"Oh, well then," Enid Davies said cheerfully.

"I played Quidditch at Hogwarts."

"Ah," she said, sounding slightly more dubious.

"For Slytherin."

"Oh dear," she said, and sounded as though she heartily meant it.

"You said it was one of the Beaters," Hugo said, turning on his former teammate.

Darren winced. "No, I didn't. I said I thought it might be. I never said it was anyone, just that I thought it might be."

"I can assure you that neither Mari nor I would dream of being turned into a bird," Enid Davies said.

"I don't think Glynnis dreamed of it either," Darren said, distracted despite himself.

She squinted at him. "But do you ever really know with Glynnis?" she said.

"Point," he conceded.

Hugo closed his eyes and took several deep breaths and then obviously reached a conclusion. He opened his eyes again and turned to the Davies girl. "You're far too pretty to be a Beater," he said gallantly. She gave him a puzzled look and he visibly deflated.

"You know, I've been known to hurt people who've said that," she said thoughtfully. "It's rather the assumption that I'm unable to handle Bludgers. It gives me this urge to send them at sensitive portions of their anatomy. It's usually men, for some strange reason. Women don't have the slightest doubt that a properly determined woman can aim heavy objects at men and hit their targets accurately. We don't really have time to bother with maiming, though. She's liable to get cranky."

"I've never known Glynnis not to be."

Enid gave him an up-and-down of her own. "No," she said. "You wouldn't have. If you're not going to turn her back, you really might as well get out of our way; I don't like to be rude but we're all going mad and Gwen's not having a nervous breakdown if I can help it. She'll take it out on us, for one thing."

"I came here to turn her back," Hugo said. "I might as well do it."

"Thank you," Darren said fervently.

"We've put her in the tent," Enid said. "She's been very grumpy. Of course one can hardly blame her. The emu's used to warm climates, you know, so we wrapped her in blankets to keep her warm enough, and unfortunately it rather immobilized her. Winkler--the referee--wandered in and started telling her his life story and she couldn't get at him to peck his eyes out."

"Well, that would annoy anyone," Darren said, somewhat uneasy at the turn this had taken. He'd hoped to convince Hugo that it was a danger-free task, but all this eye-pecking would probably convince him otherwise and then where would they be? He could try to do it himself with Hugo's ingredients, for Gwendolyn's sake, but he wasn't going to swear to the results.

"Especially Glynnis," Hugo said darkly.

Enid Davies gave him a surprised look. "Well, I suppose you haven't met Mr. Winkler," she said. "Otherwise you'd understand. I was only in there for five minutes and if I'd had a beak, I would have pecked his eyes out." She opened the flap of a tent. "She's in here. He's gone. We had to chase him out with a spare broomstick. I think he's moping around the stands. I can't find it in myself to feel bad; I thought referees were supposed to keep other people from inflicting harm on Quidditch players, not do it themselves. He's a dreadful pest."

"Is she still in her blankets?" Hugo asked, stopping at the entrance apprehensively.

"No, I was worried about her circulation, so we've just warmed the tent up a bit. Anyway she's not moving around much. She's settled down, quiet as a lamb, haven't you, Glynnis? Listening to Winkler--we don't know how long he was talking at her for--that just sucked up her will to fight." She halted, and frowned. "Oh, Lord, I'm doing it again. I don't know what it is about an emu that makes one want to patronize it. You'd better put her back soon or she'll kill me when she's better."

Hugo, looking somewhat dubious, nonetheless followed the woman into the tent. She had stopped by a large and depressed-looking bird, presumably the emu, nee Glynnis Griffiths, and was fussing with the large blanket which had been draped around the place where its shoulders would have been, had it still been human. It turned to look at the newcomers. A glint lit in its eye. Darren inwardly quailed. Oh, she recognized Hugo, all right. This meant trouble.

"Perhaps I'd better wait outside," he said.

Hugo fixed him with a deathly glare. "Oh, no, you will not," he said, his voice getting louder with every word. "If you seriously think, O'Hare, that I'm going to--"

"Will you two stop yelling?" Enid Davies interrupted. "You're going to upset her."

"Considering that her normal state is one of near-homicidal rage, I fail to see how that would be possible!" Hugo snapped.

Davies gave him a withering look. "You," she said, "are quite possibly one of the most illogical men I've met. Just because Glynnis despises you doesn't mean she hates everybody. If I'm forced to talk to you for another ten minutes, I'll probably start hating you myself."

"Yes, Hugo," Darren said. "Perhaps you're just unlovable."

Hugo gave him another withering look. "Do you want me to help or not?"

"You gave your word that you would," Darren said.

"Did I?"

"Well, if you didn't, I'll take you out and get you drunk and have you do it retroactively," Darren said.

"I'm not that foolish."

"No, but you can get drunk on two fingers of firewhiskey or three butterbeers, whichever comes first. I've done it to you before and I'll do it to you again."

Davies gave Hugo an amazed look. He noticed and flushed uncomfortably.

"Anyway, Miss--Whatever--this young lady probably ought to leave. I can't venture to speak for la Griffiths' language when she recovers," he said.

Enid Davies gave him an amazed look. "What, leave her alone with you two?" she said. "Do I look mad? She'd peck your eyes out."

"I thought you said she was calm."

'Yes, well, she is, but I wouldn't speak to it if I left her alone with you."

"Fine," Hugo said, still flushing angrily. "Fine. Fine. What difference does it make to me? Lie, cheat, steal--were you in Slytherin?"

"Good grief, no."

"Everyone seems to think I've got no other purpose in life, simply because of my accident of house," Hugo continued. "Where can I unpack my bag?"

Davies mutely pointed.

"If I call you 'love,'" Hugo added over his shoulder, "what will happen?"

Davies frowned. "I think if I tell you, I can get disciplined for using foul language within possible hearing range of minors," she said.

"She's a good hand with a Bludger," Darren added, and Miss Davies smiled at him, looking somewhat embarrassed. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "She really is," he said. "It's a pity you're not Irish."

"Well I rather like being Welsh," Enid said. "The accent isn't so stupid, for one thing."

Darren coughed behind his hand. "Matter of opinion," he muttered. She heard, and gave him a Look.

 

* * *

Of course Enid had ended up with the nasty job. Mari was off tormenting her brothers on the grounds that this would stop Glynnis having to do so after she recovered; Blodwen was cooing over her larva and harassing her husband, and Bronwyn was off sulking somewhere, presumably, and coming up with mental lists of her fiance's inadequacies with which she could confront him later. Angharad would have been worse than useless, and it was probably for the best that she had resorted to her old stand-bys of hair-flipping and flirting, because if she tried to do anything which required actual thinking she'd probably damage something and they'd be almost as poorly off as when they started.

Enid rubbed Glynnis' blanket reassuringly. Glynnis glared at her. Somehow every evil expression was more alarming when expressed by beady little emu eyes.

It took the annoying Englishman perhaps half an hour of putting things in cauldrons and taking them out again and smacking the hands of either of his assistants whenever they tried to help for him to be satisfied with his results.

"Right," he said, giving his boiling cauldron one last stir with a rapidly-melting ash-wood spoon. "Now for the toad."

"The what?"

Pinninger pulled a somewhat sleepy-looking toad out of his bag, dunked it in the potion a few times, and set it down again. It lapsed once more into somnolence almost instantly. "Now she's just got to drink this down..."

Enid stared at him in utter horror. "You're not serious," she blurted, forgetting to be reserved.

He drew himself up to his full height--not particularly tall--and tried to look imposing. "Really, my dear girl," he said.

"Your accent makes you sound ill," she said.

"He was always doing that in school," Mr. O'Hare said. "Trying to sound posh--never noticing that they sound like dead marsh frogs--"

"Well, some of them sound quite all right," Enid said. "That's not the point. You cannot possibly expect Glynnis to drink that."

"She wants to be human, doesn't she?"

"Yes!" She hesitated. "I mean, we assume so!"

"Then she has got to drink it!"

"You put strangleweed in there!"

"Necessary ingredient!"

She appealed to Mr. O'Hare. "If anything happens to her..." she said. He was looking distinctly uneasy.

"Look, Hugo," he said, "you're not, you know..."

"You asked me to fix her and I fixed her. It's not my fault if you won't let her be fixed!"

"Gwendolyn will go mad. She's on the verge of a breakdown already," Enid said.

Mr. O'Hare fixed his friend with a determined stare. "Yes, Hugo," he said. "Think of Gwendolyn."

"And her magnificent flying?" the Englishman said icily. "Yes, all right, I'm thinking of Gwen, look, I'm thinking of her." He waved his arms about in vaguely mystical gestures. "I'm thinking of Gwen, thinking of Gwen, thinking, thinking." He looked almost as though he were having a fit. Enid wished she had the nerve to smack him and then pretend she'd thought he'd actually been having one. "Thinking, Gwen, flying, Gwendolyn Morgan--what's her middle name?--Gwen, Gwen, Gwen."

"Theodolinda," Mr. O'Hare said.

Pinninger opened his eyes. "What?" he said. "New character here, Darren?"

"Her middle name is Theodolinda."

"I always thought the 'T.' stood for Theresa," Enid said. "Theodolinda. Huh. That's worse than Mari's, really, and hers is Blodeuwedd. I always thought that was as bad as it got."

"I'm thinking of Gwen," Pinninger said, through clenched teeth. "Now will you please force that thing down the bird's throat? Because there is a limit to how far my friendship will go."

"You're picturing Gwendolyn? You're picturing the terrible tragedy it would be if her Seeker is permanently damaged?"

"For God's sake, yes!"

"All right. We'll give it to her."

There was a moment of silence. Everyone stared at Glynnis. No one moved.

"Um," Darren said finally. "Miss Davies, perhaps you would...? You know her best."

"You've known her longer," Enid objected. "And you're larger. In case she puts up a fight."

"She might bite something off!"

"They can grow back fingers, you know."

"She might bite off something more important!"

"What? How could she reach that?"

"It's Glynnis," Pinninger said darkly. "You clearly never saw her in action at Hogwarts."

Enid waited for a moment but neither of the men seemed about to step up and do anything, so she gave in, casting them scathing looks as she did so. She approached her erstwhile teammate, it must be admitted, somewhat apprehensively. "Glynnis," she said. "Erm. Hallo. It's me, Enid. You remember me, don't you? You know me. Look, I know you want to be a human. You probably want to be a human, anyway. And this nice potion here is going to help you."

Glynnis seemed to understand. Bugger. That meant her human brain was somewhere in there, which meant, in turn, that they would all be in for the tongue-lashing of their lives when she got out of this. Perhaps they could direct her at Mari's brothers. But then Glynnis would be arrested and they'd still be out a Seeker.

"Just tilt your, er, beak back, there's a dear, here we go..." Surprisingly easy, Enid thought. Clearly, something was clearly about to go terribly wrong.

The emu's throat worked as the potion went down. Nice and easy, yes, that was good. The beaker finally empty, Enid scuttled back a few steps and waited. And waited.

There was a loud pop, and Enid was suddenly choking on massive quantities of purple smoke. She could hear the other two coughing.

And then there was a loud hacking noise, similar to someone trying to bring up a lung with the help of blunt instruments and a choir of ducks.

"Glynnis?" Enid said, a trifle shrilly. "Glynnis, is that you?"

"What--" the hacking thing shrieked, in between coughs--"what the bloody hell is going on here?"

Enid waved smoke away from her face. "You've been turned into an emu and I think you're better now!" she said.

"Who did it?"

"Mari's brothers. Mari's got them, it's all right!" She could dimly make out the outline of Glynnis' curly hair in the smoke. For some reason it made her think of Perseus facing Medusa for the first time.

"I'm going to have to check to make sure she isn't going to turn green," said Mr. Pinninger's voice from somewhere behind Enid. She shifted somewhat uneasily. He struck her as a pincher. She didn't want to be pinched, and if Glynnis noticed any pinching, well, she had a tendency to get angrier than Enid liked. A well-applied knee and a bit of a lecture always worked well for correcting pinching tendencies, in Enid's experience, but Glynnis' view on what should happen to pinchers involved, well, pincers.

"What?" Glynnis said loudly. "Who was that?"

"Mr. Pinninger from Zonko's!" Enid said. "He's come to help you, isn't that lovely?" The lovely Mr. Pinninger from Zonko's had not pinched, yet, but possibly it was only a matter of time. She thought, as loudly as she could,  _IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD IF YOU DON'T_ , and wished that she had studied Legilimency in school.

"What?"

The smoke was clearing. Glynnis' eyes--what could be seen of them--were wild. The rest of her was--oh, dear--noticeably bared.

"It's Mr. Pinninger," Enid repeated. Darren O'Hare was shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of the knowledge that something terrible was about to happen.

Sure enough, Glynnis pounced on Mr. Pinninger's toad, sitting inoffensively among the spell ingredients atop a barrel. She held it out straight in her hand as though brandishing a wand. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Mr. Pinninger," Enid said.

Mr. Pinninger raised one hand and gave a little wave. "Hello, Glynnis," he said. "I've just saved your arse. You might look a little bit more grateful."

"What?" Glynnis wheeled on him, now brandishing her toad in his direction.

"Glynnis?" Enid said. "Put the toad away. Glynnis, he's trying to help you. Look, you're not a bird anymore!"

"I refuse to be saved by Hugo bloody Pinninger!" Glynnis howled. "Do you hear me? I refuse!" She brandished the toad defiantly. Enid looked around for Glynnis' wand. Darren O'Hare moved it behind his back.

"That's my toad," Hugo Pinninger said, sounding offended. "It belongs to Zonko's and if all the toads aren't accounted for at the end of the day--"

"This-- toad-- shall-- not-- move!" Glynnis bellowed.

The toad was taking all this brandishing remarkably calmly, Enid thought. Certainly no toad she'd ever met would take this sort of thing quite so calmly, although admittedly the last toad she'd met had been in Divination class during the extispicy segment and it had seemed all too aware of its eventual fate. Guinevere Trotsworthy had staged a protest. Madam Vablatsky had been unamused and those students foolish enough to spend the extispicy lessons brandishing signs reading, "Toads are lovely, toads live in pails, I refuse to read a toad's entrails," had ended up with notes to the Headmaster's office, detention, and, in the case of Guinevere Trotsworthy, a headache and several dozen pet amphibians, all of whom would only answer to "Number Seven."

"And give me my wand," Glynnis added.

"You should probably get some clothes on first," Hugo Pinninger said.

Glynnis waved the toad aloft higher. What ever had happened to Guinevere's tedious toads? Enid wondered. She ought to be able to remember. "As long as I have this toad, Pinninger," Glynnis said furiously, "you will not thwart me, do you understand?"

"I'm the last person who would try to thwart you."

"Oh, you are, are you?"

"Yes, I am!"

"You!" Glynnis brandished the toad in Enid's direction. Enid stepped back.

"You really should put some clothes on, Glynnis," she said.

Pipes. That was it. They'd gotten into the pipes and then Ogg had had to extract them. He'd been hanging from the ceiling for months after that, banging on the pipes with his wand and shouting, "Out, you daft little buggers! Out!" Several of the Muggle-born students had made smug references to a plague of bullfrogs, but then someone had felt it necessary to point out that as a point of fact, the plague in Egypt had been one bullfrog, and he had in fact been very large and capable of spontaneous Apparition. People were very touchy about this sort of thing. It was rather embarrassing, actually, and Enid couldn't blame them for changing it in the book.

"Well, perhaps I don't want to put any clothes on!" Glynnis snapped. "Did you think of that, eh?"

"Er, well, no, actually," Enid said. "I assumed that you would prefer to be clothed."

"Well, I wouldn't. Now give me my wand."

"Glynnis, that little German person is running around here somewhere. Do you really want him to see you in the, er, altogether?"

"Enid, you are a grown woman, for God's sake say 'starkers.'"

"I don't see why I should. There's no virtue in vulgarity. It's just as nice to speak politely as it is to speak vulgarly."

"Oh, God. The one woman who paid attention to Madame Vablatsky's Slavic-accented rantings on the proper use of the English language, and she's got my wand."

"I haven't!" Enid protested. "And whatever else you may say about Madame Vablatsky, she... was a very good teacher."

"I had a dream about a pink poodle once," Hugo Pinninger said. "She insisted it was an analogy for the fall of the Hapsburg empire in 1812."

Glynnis glowered at her unexpected ally.

"The Hapsburg empire didn't fall in 1812," Enid protested. "Anyway, she may not have been straight on dream interpretation-- or Tarot cards-- or-- well, there's no call for you to insult her linguistic capabilities!"

"The woman calls her students 'my deformed monkeys,'" Glynnis said.

"I always assumed she did that on purpose," Enid said, somewhat blankly.

Glynnis looked at Hugo Pinninger and sniffed. "Well, yes, I suppose so," she said. "Certainly 'deformed monkey' is a kind epithet to use for some of her students. If you don't give me my wand, Enid, I'm afraid the toad and I are going to have to get unfriendly." She lifted the toad aloft once more.

"Glynnis, for God's sake put on some clothes, and for the last time, I don't have your wand."

"Oh, really?  _Lumos_!"

There was a pause. Nothing happened.

"You just attempted to cast a spell using a toad," Enid said.

"I want my wand!"

"That's it. I'm finding Morpheus Price. And Gwen. You... make her get dressed or something." Enid left the tent. No pinching had yet taken place and she preferred to keep it that way.


	19. So a Blonde Walks onto a Quidditch Pitch...

**LOVE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH  
Heidelberg Harriers vs. Holyhead Harpies, 1953**

**CHAPTER NINETEEN: SO A BLONDE WALKS ONTO A QUIDDITCH PITCH...**

Parker had been given an Assignment. This in and of itself was an exciting event. Algernon rarely gave him Assignments. Parker was given things to do, of course, but they generally involved cleaning up dragon vomit or giving someone else a hand with something. This was an Assignment of his very own.

Better yet, it involved blondes.

He spotted one.

"Blonde at four o'clock!" he shouted.

"What?" Algernon howled from further down in the stands, checking his watch. "It's only one o'clock--" He stopped and closed his eyes.

"Parker, you idiot!" Dorny snapped, and a hand caught Parker upside the head before he could duck. He scowled.

"Algie said to watch for blondes!"

"Stop saying 'four o'clock,' you'll have Algie hauling out a time-turner next," Dorny warned, scowling.

Algernon was rubbing his temples with his fingers, looking pained. Parker wondered if he had a migraine. He himself got migraines a lot. Usually they happened when he'd been shoveling dragon dung for too long. But if there was dragon dung, that meant that there was a dragon nearby, and Parker kind of hoped there wasn't, because that would mean they would have to catch it, which would be messy and maybe kind of dangerous, and then they would have to go back to the reserve and shovel more dragon dung, which wasn't really much fun at all.

"Why would we need a time-turner?" Parker said.

Dorny scowled at him and shook a finger in his face before stomping off. Algie followed, still looking pained. No wonder Algie was getting headaches, with Dorny being so confusing.

Parker checked. The blonde was by now almost there. "Blonde! Blonde!" he howled.

The blonde whirled, eyes widening, to check behind her. Around them, dragon keepers leapt up or began running away or simply twitched in a surprised manner.

The blonde recovered herself, turned back, and advanced on Parker, eyes narrowed. As blondes went, she wasn't what Parker would have preferred. There was definitely grey streaking the blonde hair and she was short and plump and wore sensible robes. Still, a blonde was a blonde. He managed a sickly smile. Wasn't Algie going to come back?

"Mitchell isn't here?" he said.

"What?" the blonde said.

"Uh, his mother died. He had to go to the--No, wait it was his grandmother. He had to go to his grandmother's funer--No, no, I'm sorry, forget about that, what I'm supposed to say is--" Parker took a deep breath. No. Didn't help. He took another one. Still didn't help. "Um," he said. "I kind of forgot. But he's not here. Um. And if you see anyone that looks like him, it's not--it's not him. It's--his evil twin?" he hazarded.

The blonde stared at him. She looked rather like the Potions Mistress at Hogwarts when she did that. Or most of Parker's professors, really. The look about the eyes was the same. He couldn't remember if any of Mitchell's blondes worked at Hogwarts.

"I'll tell him you were here," Parker said. "If you could just leave your name and where he could contact you..." He pulled a quill and parchment out of the pocket of his robes and held them, trying to look nonchalant, as though he were used to asking blondes' Floo addresses every day with the expectation of being answered.

It didn't work. The blonde was giving him the same look that he'd got the last time he had asked a girl for her Floo address. She'd thrown her drink in his face and then kicked him. Parker tried to nonchalantly hunch over so that she couldn't hit anything vital, but it was hard to do that nonchalantly, and now he was holding the pencil in front of his groin. The blonde looked at it as though it were a viper, and then at his face.

There was a moment of silence. Then suddenly, miraculously, her face cleared up. "Oh, you poor boy," she said. "I'm so sorry."

"Um." Apologies didn't usually come before a kneeing. Perhaps he could straighten up? Or was it better not to risk it?

"I should have realized. You poor dear. Part of the Ministry's drive to hire the, er, differently abled. Yes, you're doing a marvelous job." She spoke the last several words very slowly, again reminding Parker of the Potions Mistress, who had been able to put six syllables into "shrivelfig" when particularly annoyed. "Bloody--marvellous." She paused, gave a little frown, and then said, again clearly, "Very, very good. Um,  _very_  good.  _Good_  boy." She took the pencil and paper and wrote something down, folded the paper in half, handed it back to him, and gave him a bright smile.

He waited.

"Yes," she said. "Now you may go."

"Um," Parker said. "I'm not supposed to do that." What if she caught a glimpse of Mitchell somewhere? He was supposed to be at his grandmother's funeral. Or his aunt's. Or someone's. There was, Parker was fairly certain, something about a corpse in there, but Parker didn't really remember what, and people got unaccountably annoyed if you talked about corpses and said the wrong thing.

The smile slipped, but the voice remained sugary and ve-ry ve-ry  _slow_. "Go--to--boss man," she said. "Your--boss. The--man--in-- _charge_."

"Are you all right?" Parker said doubtfully. Even the Potions Mistress hadn't been able to keep up the slow-talking for this long. After a few words, her voice had always sped up again, generally to shriek something like "Mr. Baragwaneth, Mr. Chewings--Headmaster Dippet's office,  _now_!"

"Yes," the blonde said reassuringly. "I'm  _fine_. And you asked that so  _well_."

"Um, good?" Parker said.

"Very good," she said, nodding vigorously. "Very, very good."

There was another pause.

"So..." Parker said.

The blonde waited.

"Um. What brings you up here on such a lovely day? I mean, it really is kind of nice. We're waiting for a dragon, but other than that, it's kind of nice. I mean, it will be really nice if you're the only blonde here--I don't mean that in a bad way. I meant to say--" Inspiration struck. "--There's this kind of prophecy that if there's more than one blonde with a bunch of dragon keepers on a Quidditch pitch, all the dragons will fly away, and that would be bad, because they'd burn stuff and it's really hard to get good help these days. I can kind of understand why, because mostly when you start you shovel dragon dung, and that smells. It gives me migraines. Do you get migraines?"

"I'm getting one now," the blonde said. "Look, why don't you just take that note to--"

"But I can't," Parker said, panicking. "Didn't I tell you? He's at his--his third cousin's wedding, he can't come."

"But I owled him just three hours ago!"

"But he was at his professor's niece's handfasting--"

"He owled me back."

"He said he wouldn't!" Parker cried, horrified. "How are we supposed to say he's gone if he's here and he writes owls, he's not supposed to do that, it's not fair!"

Algie finally approached, looking incredibly calm--how did he do that?--and Parker could have sobbed with relief.

"Algie!" he gasped, a sob of relief escaping him despite his best efforts to maintain a becoming, manly stoicism. "She's--it's a blonde, for Mitchell, and she says he owled her and he wasn't supposed to do that if we're supposed to--"

The blonde turned to Algie. Algie regarded her very calmly, seemingly not upset by the presence of a forbidden blonde at the encampment.

She said, "He claims you're at your author's bondage rites."

He sighed. "I think we've got our dragons crossed," he said.

"What?" Parker nearly wailed. There were two out? They'd only been told one and hopefully she was in France by now--even shovelling dragon dung would be better than this.

"It's a turn of phrase, Parker. It's not meant to be taken literally. Madam Clagg-Baulch, this is--er, Parker. What's your first name, Parker?"

"Winifred," Parker said. "It was after a great-aunt, my parents didn't like it but my grandparents--"

"Winifred... Parker," Algernon said.

"He  _is_ , um, male?" the blonde said.

"Yes," Algernon said, then added, with an inexplicable expression, "so far as we are aware. Or care to be. Parker, this is Madam Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch. She's with the Ministry."

"She's a blonde," Parker said stubbornly.

Algernon sighed. "Parker, she's not one of Mitchell's girlfriends." Something seemed to strike him. He glanced down at Madam Clagg-Baulch. "You're not, are you?"

"Who's Mitchell?"

"I'll take that as a no. Perhaps we can go somewhere else to discuss the werewolf situation..."

"Actually I'm here about some other things as well," Madam Clagg-Baulch said severely. "We're hoping that the dragon keepers will be our eyes and ears on the Quidditch pitch. I myself will be in the stands, but there are only so many things one person can watch."

"Of course, of course."

As they were walking away, Parker heard her hiss, "Is there something wrong with the boy?"

"According to our tests... no."

"What? Really?"

"Yes, surprisingly enough. The results were incontrovertible."

"Algie," Parker called, "should I still keep a look-out?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes. Only... ask someone else before you stop anyone, all right, Parker? This way, Madam Clagg-Baulch; we can discuss these things in the tent, if Dorny isn't in there eating everything that isn't tied down..."

 

* * *

Madam Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch seemed less than impressed with the amenities in the tent, but then, Algernon probably wouldn't have been impressed with any place which included an unshaven Jack Dorny stuffing his mouth full of unidentified (and unidentifiable) foodstuffs. "Jack, if you please," Algernon said.

Dorny tried to talk around the--food things--but little white bits sprayed out as he spoke, since his cheeks were bulging with... whatever it was. "If I please what?"

Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch frowned at Dorny with a single-minded expression which said that she saw his behavior as unbecoming to a gentleman. Dorny had enough common sense to flinch back, or perhaps it was family memory in action; he had a brother, according to rumor, who'd been caught doing something unsavory down near Corfu, and the wizards in those parts didn't bother arresting you; they just left you for the gorgons. From all accounts (fragmentary and incoherent though said accounts might be), it was not at all unlikely that your brother would retain a vestigial memory of what an enraged gorgon looked like, despite never having discussed it with you due to the fact that (Reserve rumor had it) the only bits of you they'd found had been incapable of independent thought and were currently residing in an ornamental vase on your mum's mantelpiece.

Dorny denied ever having had a brother, of course, but rumor, as always, knew better.

"Madam Clagg-Baulch and I have some business to discuss. Ministry business," Algernon added. Dorny nearly knocked over his stool in his haste to leave. "And don't touch the Thing!" Algernon shouted after him. Madam Clagg-Baulch eyed him.

"Don't touch the what, Mr. Longbottom?"

"The, ah, the Runic Resonance Dragon Attraction Device," Algernon said. "It's a very sensitive piece of equipment and I prefer that no one touch it unless they've had training." Training in what, it was hard to say, since he couldn't imagine what training could possibly prepare one for proper use of the Thing. Or, for that matter, what training could possibly inform one what the proper use of the Thing was.

"You called it the Thing," Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch said.

"Yes," Algernon said. Her eyebrows were still drawn together in a skeptical fashion and her lips were pursed in a way that was, alas, familiar to him from dealing with his great-aunts. Further explanation, or obfuscation, would be required, it seemed. "It's an acronym," he lied.

"An acronym? For what? It seems the proper acronym would be the RRDAD." Her enunciation of each letter was so crisp that she was nearly spitting. Algernon tried not to cringe.

"Do you know, I don't quite remember," he said.

Madam Clagg-Baulch decided not to pursue the matter, instead staring at the entrance to the tent and shaking her head. "Well, that certainly was an interesting gentleman who just left."

"Yes, we... have a lot of them up at the Reserve. Have you perchance ever met Willard Thickitt?"

"I have not had that pleasure. Mr. Longbottom, let us cut straight to the chase."

"Yes, let's," Algernon murmured, grateful to avoid further discussing the inadequacies of his employees and colleagues.

"As you are aware, I am Head of the Beast Divison of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. This is a job which carries a great deal of responsibility. I'll get right down to it: the Ministry is seriously concerned about possible smuggling of magical creatures--particularly Class Triple-X and above--at this match, and we'd like to institute further security precautions."

"I have to say, I don't really see the need for additional security regarding smuggled animals," Algernon said. "A Quidditch match doesn't seem the most likely of places..."

"There was that whole Augurey business, I believe?"

"Yes, but that was an old man making an Augurey call."

"Nonetheless, we at the Ministry take these sorts of accusations very seriously. We cannot afford to take the risk that illegal animals will be smuggled into England--"

"Wales," Algernon said absently.

" _Our glorious and beloved nation_ , and perhaps breed, and disrupt the local ecosystem. Not to mention the illegal potion-making possibilities."

"But it was, and I cannot stress this enough, an old man making an Augurey call," Algernon said.

Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch glowered. "We at the Ministry take allegations of animal smuggling very seriously--as should you, considering your line of work."

"Yes, they keep telling us that," Algernon said. "We don't really have problems with it. Occasionally someone sneaks up the mountain and tries to steal an egg, but they generally find themselves facing a rather furious fully-grown female-dragon. Our only problem is finding a bin big enough to hold their remains."

"Dragon smuggling is a highly profitable industry," Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch said indignantly.

Algernon sighed. "Yes," he said. "So the reports say. I can't help thinking that they were written by people who need to get out more. I mean, it's very easy to sit in a cubicle and write, 'Powdered Hungarian Horntail horn can command prices of over five hundred galleons on the black market,' but when you're faced with an actual Hungarian Horntail, five hundred galleons doesn't really seem worth it."

"Statistics show--"

"Yes, yes, Horntail horn siezed in desperate ports of call, all of that," Algernon said. "However the Romanian reserve at least--well, you remember the Mortuary Remains Personnel being 'let go' all at once? Surely you know the story behind that. Frankly, I have to say I can't blame them. Dragons don't bury their own dead, I don't know why we have to bother. It would help funding enormously."

"If there is a licit source of such ingredients, it would be impossible to ascertain when they were illicitly obtained!"

"Frankly, if someone's able to kill a Hungarian Horntail to get hold of the horn, more power to him," Algernon said. "I couldn't do it, and I'm trained to deal with the beasts."

"Mr. Longbottom, you're being rather flippant."

"I'm never flippant when the Reserve's finances are concerned," Algernon said. "Have you seen what passes for a library there?"

"Mr. Longbottom, there is absolutely no cause here for levity. The Ministry has reason to believe that there may be smuggled goods here. As a Ministry employee--"

"We do tend to forget that rather, you see, up on the Reserve," Algernon said apologetically.

Elfrida M. Clagg-Baulch drew herself up to her full height, though this was a full ten centimeters below Algernon's. "Mr. Longbottom," she said severely, "whatever your personal feelings may be, it is your duty as a Ministry employee to follow orders, and your orders are to be on full alert."

"Actually, my orders are to be on full alert for a missing dragon," Algernon said gently. "That qualifies as a state of emergency. We're legally required not to notice anything else."

"I see no dragon."

"I see no smuggled goods," Algernon said, "but I'll have everyone keep their eyes open."

"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom." Madam Clagg-Baulch inclined her head stiffly. "I myself will be on the scene should you need further instruction."

"Um," Algernon said. "Well--all right--but--er--we can't offer you accomodation, I'm afraid."

"Quite unecessary; my family are already here. To all appearances, I will be an everyday wife and mother attending a Quidditch game with her loving family. There will be, I can assure you, no discrepancies in my appearance to put the smugglers on their guard. I am well aware of where my duty lies, and I wouldn't dream of allowing any personal considerations to take precedence over my concern for the Ministry's vital welfare."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear it," Algernon said.

 

* * *

The owl landed.

"D'you think they've caught the dragon?" Dorny said.

Algernon reached for the owl. It proved to be recalcitrant about giving up its message; it got in a couple of good sharp pecks before he managed to extract the roll of paper. He consulted the address. "Well, at least it's not for Mitchell," he said. He looked up. "Has anyone seen Mitchell, by the by?"

"He's snogging some blonde down the stands," Dorny said.

"Which one?" someone else asked, in tones of great interest.

"How the hell should I know?" Dorny snapped. "Ask Parker. He seems to keep track."

Algernon raised one hand in the universal "stop" position. "Under no circumstances," he said. "I've assigned him to look after the Thing."

"Look after it?"

"He is to stand near it, making occasional circuits around it, and should he notice anyone attempting to meddle with the Thing, he is to notify me immediately," Algernon translated. "He is not, of course, to touch it."

"Thank God," Dorny said. "Worried you'd gone barmy there for a minute."

" _Thank_  you, Jack."

"So what's it say, then?"

"They think the dragon may have been spotted over Dorset."

"This calls for a celebratory drink," Dorny said. "Where's Mitchell? He owes me seventeen Knuts and a Sickle."

"I suspect our alcohol supply will be greatly increased when Rusty arrives, which should be any moment now," Algernon said. "Anyway, I doubt seventeen Knuts and a Sickle will buy you very much in the way of liquor--besides which, I've heard you complaining about the alcohol they're selling here."

"Tastes like dragon piss," Dorny said promptly. Algernon winced.

"You know, while I understand it is theoretically possible to strain and ferment the stuff, I've never particularly wanted to--"

"Not much to compare to good firewhiskey, no," Dorny agreed absently. "Anyway, it's not for liquor; I bet Mitchell the dragon would never get here, and he bet me it would, because he said things always go wrong. And the Hairy Hungarian's not even got here yet! We can leave before he gets here! Good day all around. Where's Mitchell?"

Another owl began to circle their small section of the stands. Everyone squinted up at it.

"Ten Sickles says they're taking back the dragon sighting," someone said.

"I forbid anyone to take that bet," Algernon said.

"There's nothing illegal about betting," Dorny protested.

"That's the Reserve owl, Jack. They haven't spotted the dragon over Dorset."

"How do you know they haven't caught it? Maybe that's what it's saying."

Algernon sniffed. "They sent Thickitt down to Dorset," he said. "He probably mistook a cloud for a dragon and owled half the country."

"What, just because it's Thicky Thickitt? Ten Sickles says they caught the dragon. Even old Thicky can do something right once in a while." Dorny did not sound discouraged yet; Algernon, who had joined the Reserve at the same time as "Thicky" Thickitt, and knew the man far too well for his peace of mind (the whole incident with the fireproof shield ought to have been physically impossible; they'd called in experts, from Romania, even, and seven years later they  _still_  hadn't explained it satisfactorily) could not hold the same optimistic view.

The Reserve owl, as Algernon had called it, was in fact the oldest of the six the Reserve kept on hand. He had been elderly even when Algernon had joined the Reserve, and God-only-knew-how-many years of avoiding fire-breathing dragons, drunken men on broomsticks, and less-than-friendly Welsh weather had taken its toll: he more closely resembled an airborne featherduster than anything sentient. He landed and submitted to having his message removed without any fuss whatsoever, and promptly keeled over on his side.

"Er... is it dead?" Dorny said.

"No, he's just sleeping," Algernon said. "If he doesn't move in a half-hour or so, dunk him in a basin of cold water and he'll come to quickly enough."

"That's... rather disturbing behavior."

"What, a Dinas Emrys man who's not used to old Specky? I'm ashamed of you, Jack. Everyone knows old Specky. It's a rite of passage--sending him on a short errand and then telling the new boys that they've killed him." He consulted the message. "They haven't spotted the dragon over Dorset. You owe me ten Sickles."

"What did they think it was?"

"The message doesn't say," Algernon said, "but, from my own experience, I can assure you that if it wasn't a cloud, which Thickitt mistook for a dragon flying, then it was a disturbing-looking tree stump, which Thickitt mistook for a dragon roosting."

There was a shout from the pitch. Everyone turned. "What on earth is going on there?" Algernon said.

Dorny scrambled for a better view. Algernon sent one of the trainees for some owl treats, and another for a basin of cold water--experience said that Specky was unlikely to revive himself without this artificial aid--and began to collate his collected owls. This was the third incorrect sighting of the trip and he was beginning to be annoyed. Couldn't anyone double-check before declaring they'd found the dragon? How hard was it to identify a full-grown dragon? Just wait until it set something on fire if you were that confused.

Of course, the trouble was that Thicky generally  _did_ , which Algernon personally felt was part of the reason the Reserve's outlying buildings were no longer insurable.

He found the intellect of some of the men who shared his chosen career to be sadly troubling.

Dorny came back looking excited. "The Harriers were cobbing."

"They were what?"

"Cobbing. It's when--"

"Was anyone damaged?" Algernon interrupted.

"What?"

"Were any people damaged in the performance of this 'cob'?"

"Oh. No. Not permanently, anyway."

"Well, then, kindly return your attention to your work."

"What work?" Dorny demanded. "Mitchell's off snogging one of his blondes and you're not telling him to get back to work."

"Fine, then. I deputize you to tell Mitchell to get back to work."

"Oh, no! You're not putting that one on me!"

"Well, then, go and wait for Rusty to get here."

"How much alcohol is he bringing?"

"Whatever he didn't manage to consume en route," Algernon said.

"Do I have to talk to the Hairy Hungarian?"

"In all honesty, Jack, I'd prefer you  _didn't_."

"Where are they landing?"

"Perhaps you would like to select a suitable area and burn a welcome message into the ground--'Land here,' perhaps, or 'Greetings, Rusty MacFusty--a hearty welcome to you and your alcoholic beverages.'"

"You're in a mood."

"It's hot out, everyone is suffering from dehydration, the dragon will probably be similarly suffering--and in terrible condition when she arrives, if she arrives--and I have been arguing with a termagant from the Ministry who seems to think that someone is trying to smuggle Bowtruckles into the country using charmed handbags. I can't see why I should be annoyed, can you?"

"I'll just go and wait for Rusty," Dorny said.

"Yes, Jack. Kindly do."

 

* * *

The wait was not long; directly after lunch two broomsticks, each bearing a rather dishevelled man and a large bundle lashed to the stick just before the bristles, landed just to the south of the dragon-keepers' small encampment. With no small relief, Algernon put aside his quill--he'd been trying to get a start on writing his research grant request for September--and went to greet them. Both Rusty and the Hairy Hungarian seemed to be fully conscious and in possession of all their limbs; already, Algernon was conscious of his great good fortune.

"Hallo, Rusty, Laszlo. Welcome to the wait."

"How's the game going?"

"People have been cobbing," Algernon said, "or so I have been told. How were things at the Reserve when you stopped by?"

"More or less the same as usual," Rusty said. "We got a rather desperate owl from Mitchell. Tell him we can't provide a corpse of someone's dead grandmother, but we did bring Parker's magazine."

"I thought I told you not to--"

"It seemed perfectly harmless, I don't know why he made such a fuss over it," Rusty said. "Actually it wasn't his copy. The only magazines in his box were  _William's Witches_  and _Mystic Minxes_. I think Breedlove must have grabbed Parker's copy while he was sifting through the pornography, so I stole his for Parker."

He handed it to Algernon.  _Which Broomstick_.

"I didn't know Parker was interested in flying," Algernon said.

Dorny's laugh, coming as it did right at Algernon's shoulder, caused Algernon to jump several centimeters into the air.

"Dammit, Jack!"

"What?" Dorny said.

"What was so funny, anyway?" Algernon snapped.

"Well, I thought you were making a joke--ha ha ha--"

Algernon handed him  _Which Broomstick_. "What's funny about that?" he said. "It's a decent example of modern press, although I'm not really interested in 'We Test the 10 Best Broomsticks of 1953'--I suppose you could offer it to one of the Quidditch players when you're done, or the junior referees; the poor chaps are looking rather bored during their off hours."

"I thought it was the pornographic one," Dorny said, after opening the magazine to check. He gave it back to Algernon.

"I think you're thinking of  _Quaffles Monthly_ ," Rusty said.

"What?" Algernon said.

"You know, their summer 'waterproof quaffle testing' issue."

"Their what?" Algernon said.

Rusty sighed. "This girl everyone's been mentioning, the Beater--was she a Ravenclaw?"

"I think so," Dorny said doubtfully.

"Good."

"That didn't sound particularly good," Algernon warned.

Rusty shrugged. " _Quaffle Monthly_  does a special summer issue every year. Pretty girls on broomsticks in wet Quidditch robes, nothing particularly worrisome. Didn't they have old copies lying around the boys' bathrooms in the Ravenclaw dorms? You couldn't go a meter without tripping over them in the Slytherin dormitory..."

"Witch Broomstick is of an entirely different magnitude of, um, explicitness," Dorny said wisely. "Er... Not that I would know from, you know, personal observation or anything."

"What's pornographic about  _Which Broomstick_?"

"Not  _Which, Witch_." Dorny spelled it. There was a pause.

"It does sound--rather dirty," Algernon said eventually.

"Nothing 'rather' about it!" Dorny chortled.

Rusty and Algernon both looked at him.

"Erm... I'm going on, you know, what lads down the pub told me," Dorny said.

"Don't you frequent Muggle pubs?"

"What is Laszlo doing to the Thing, I wonder?" Dorny said. "Perhaps I'll go check."

"Jack, I've told you already, if you go within a dozen meters of the Thing again, I'm confining you to the tent until the dragon shows up. If she shows up."

"God, don't say that," Rusty said. "I don't want to have suffered through an excruciating hangover for no reason."

"I think the hangover was a consequence of the firewhiskey," Algernon said. "I doubt the dragon had much to do with it."

"Oh, fine, be logical. Someday some dragon is going to eat that Ravenclaw brain of yours and then where will you be?"

"Um... I really haven't the slightest idea of how to reply to that."

"Miss Davies wouldn't be too happy about that," Dorny chortled.

"Jack!" Algernon shook a warning finger. "You will kindly keep your obscene insinuations to yourself. Now I am going to go--elsewhere, until you can control yourself!"

He stomped off.

"I suppose he hasn't been getting much sleep lately, poor bastard," Rusty said eventually. "She nice, this girl?"

Dorny shrugged. "Dunno, really. She seems all right."

"Good, good."

"Because it would be horrible if he ended up married to a  _harpy_!" Dorny said, and laughed long and hard.

Rusty just stared at him. Eventually he said, "It might be because I'm just coming down off a hangover and a three-hour broom flight with the Hairy Hungarian, but that wasn't at all funny. Was it supposed to be?"

"Er. Yes?"

"Perhaps I'll just go and see if the firewhiskey I stashed underneath the spare blankets is still there."

"Er. Good idea. Can I have some?"

"Only if you promise not to start singing. And for God's sake don't give any to the Hairy Hungarian," Rusty added quickly. "I'm  _not_  putting up with him drunk again, they don't pay us enough."

"As if I would!" Dorny snapped, and Rusty remembered, too late, Dorny's opinions of the Hairy Hungarian. "Ruddy twit, spitting on  _my_  mum, hah, I'd like to see him try it..."

Rusty closed his eyes and tried to ignore his headache.

 

* * *

There was screaming from the pitch. "What's going on?" Rusty said. He had firewhiskey in his hand. Algernon hadn't said anything so far, so apparently it was all right, but Rusty hadn't offered to share. Parker thought that was sort of rude of him.

"Someone on the pitch has turned into a bird, I think," Mitchell said.

"Oh, yeah, that German guy got turned into a bird a couple of games ago," Rusty said. "The Seeker, you know. He manages to irritate people." He looked up. "Let me know if the Harpies get an interesting penalty."

"No, it was one of them."

"What?"

"It was a Harpy."

"What?" Algernon dove for the Omnioculars. "Which one?" He grabbed the Omnioculars without removing the strap around Mitchell's neck. Jerked off balance by his superior's attempt to look through his Omnioculars, Mitchell protested weakly, but Rusty made a throat-cutting gesture and Mitchell meekly ducked out from underneath the strap.

"I think I'm going to see if I got any owls," he said.

"No you're not," Algernon said, without turning from his survey of the field. "You said you were at your grandmother's funeral, Augustine, and at your grandmother's funeral you shall remain. After the scene we made in front of Madam Clagg-Baulch, I am not inclined to grant you any latitude."

"But that wasn't me!"

"Do you have any idea how much of the Reserve's funding comes from the Beast Division?"

"Not bloody much," Rusty said, taking another swig of firewhiskey. "We're always competing with the MacFusty Reserve up in the Hebrides and my uncle Wallace is in charge of filling out the budget request forms up there, and I can tell you, the things he does to fiddle their finances would make your stomach turn, if you understood what they were, which I'm not sure I do." He looked up at Algernon in sudden alarm. "Which one is it?"

"I don't know. Miss Davies, I am pleased to say, seems to have the situation well in hand." Rusty made a grab for the Omnioculars and Algernon batted his hand away. "I will keep you informed of further developments, Rusty. No, it is true that little of our funding comes from the Beast Division, but there is a grant available in the coming year, and we have--or had--a good chance of getting it."

"Well, who else are they going to give it to?" Mitchell said.

Algernon gave him a withering look. "The MacFusty Reserve," he said. "However, we have an unexpected advantage--Madam Clagg-Baulch feels, and I cannot but agree with her, that Parker qualifies as 'differently-abled,' and there is a push to hire such people in Ministry positions."

"Differently-abled?" Mitchell said.

"Daft," Algernon translated.

"What, the Minister of Magic doesn't qualify?" Mitchell said blankly.

"I wouldn't rely on having Parker as an advantage over the MacFusty Reserve," Rusty advised. "You clearly haven't met most of my cousins."

"Well, don't mention that when you go courting," Algernon said. "You know what people think of families with insanity."

"What? Who said I was going courting? Anyway, Algernon, have you met most of the pureblooded families around? You must have. You're as old as they get! If they worried about insanity they'd never breed!"

"Strangely enough, I am no longer invited to most family dinner parties," Algernon said placidly. "I have to say the fact does not unduly distress me."

"What did you discuss at the last one?"

"It was during the Blue-Spotted Sneezing Epidemic, and you know what that does to hatchlings' lungs."

"Question answered." Rusty sighed. "Algernon, will you give me the Omnioculars, or do I have to kill you?"

Algernon handed him the Omnioculars, one eyebrow raised. "Gentlemen," he said, "while this is very eventful, it is time we returned to our given occupation, and Rusty, I'm not going to comment on your threat at the moment, but mind you don't repeat it in front of certain other superiors at the Reserve, or you'll find yourself in the middle of a wizard's duel before you've had time to draw your wand, and considering Thicky Thickitt's mastery of his wandwork--or lack thereof--you'll probably find yourself partially Transfigured into something unpleasant and completely useless, and Thicky with no idea of how to turn you back."

"Who's the bird?" Dorny nearly howled.

Algernon shook his head sadly. "Slang, Jack--slang is the mark of a weak mind."

Dorny gave a wordless howl of frustration.

"It appears to be the Seeker," Algernon said, apparently taking pity on him. "Miss Griffiths, is it not? They have called a time-out and it seems unlikely that much of interest will happen in the meantime."

"Some dark-haired bird--slang, not literal,  _thank_  you, Algie--has just run into the stands. She's chasing a bunch of boys," Rusty said, still staring through the Omnioculars.

"Presumably the responsible parties. Shall we return to dragon-watching?" Algernon attempted to confiscate the Omnioculars.

"No, wait, which one's the one everyone's been talking about?" Rusty said. "I want to see her."

"Rusty--"

"You know, the Ravenclaw one."

"She's a Beater," Dorny said.

"Not the one up in the stands?"

"Nah, that's probably the other one. The little one's a mad little--ah, a mad little person. Those brothers of hers, it's been a job and a half keeping them away from the Thing. Algie's is calmer."

"I think I see her. I can't see her face, though. Dammit--she's occupied with the bird. I can't get a good view. There are a couple of them there. One of them's just flown away. Which one's the captain?"

"Captain's Gwendolyn Morgan," Dorny said, over his shoulder.

"I guess it's Morgan. I saw her fly a few times at Hogwarts and her flying style's pretty unmistakeable. Yes, she's going into the stands now... I guess the referee's decided to give them a longer time-out. Oh, those Germans don't look happy."

"Rusty, for the last time, give me the Omnioculars  _right now_."

Rusty surrendered them with poor grace.

 

* * *

One of the Harpies, Quidditch robes flapping open to reveal a rather fashionable-looking pair of dark-green puffy pants, came over to join them, raking one hand somewhat nervously through her hair. "Hallo, Mr. Longbottom," she said. She had a pleasant Welsh voice.

"Er--Miss Davies," Algie stammered, looking unusually discombobulated. Oho! "What a pleasant surprise. Is everything all right? There was quite a commotion on the pitch."

"Oh, yes. Glynnis was an emu, briefly, but she's been fixed now." She said this casually, as though it were an everyday occurrence at Harpy games. Possibly it was; Rusty reserved his own devotion for the Pride of Portree, mostly because, growing up in the MacFusty clan, if you expressed a preference for anyone else that was considered a license for all of your male cousins (and there were many, some of them doubly so) to cuff you about the head as hard as they possibly could.

"How'd you manage that one?" Rusty asked interestedly.

"Mr. O'Hare--that's Bronwyn Jones' fiance; she's one of our Chasers--knows someone at Zonko's. Look, I'd rather not talk about it, all right?"

"Why?" Algie asked, sounding alarmed. "What happened? Is he--did he do something?"

"Well, no," the Beater said, fidgeting, "but I thought they were going to come to blows, honestly... He was at Hogwarts with them, you see, and Mr. O'Hare and Gwen were in Slytherin and Gryffindor, so of course they had this rivalry, and Glynnis--well, apparently Glynnis hasn't changed much since her Hogwarts days, so this man from Zonko's... Oh, I don't really want to get into it. It's not as though you really can cast an Unforgivable Curse with a toad, so it's not as though there were any harm done."

Rusty blinked.

"Well, that certainly is good news," Algie said heartily. Must have had a ruddy lobotomy, Rusty thought, and looked around to see if he could spot Angharad. Yes, there she was, flipping her ponytail at a couple of boys with thick necks and short haircuts. Flip! Flip! She'd done it even at Hogwarts. Flip! His ex-fiancee had been incredibly annoyed. What, Caroline had asked, does anyone see in hair-flipping that makes her so irresistible?

Rusty suspected it was not so much the hair-flipping as the simpering, the smirking, and the results of the incredibly lengthy and detailed beauty routine (which Caroline had described to him in agonizing, infuriated, deliberate detail), but one didn't say those sorts of things to Caroline, particularly when one was hoping that one might be able to bag a Snidget or two (as common Slytherin parlance had had it back then) in the Astronomy Tower that night.

"Yes, it's a great relief," the Beater said. "And Mr. O'Hare's taken his friend away so there's no danger of Glynnis' trying to do it again. Honestly, I thought Gwen was going to have a heart attack; Glynnis is unstoppable when she's bent on vengeance."

"I'm sure she is," Algie said politely.

"I like your, er, trouser thingies," Rusty said, to change the subject. Watching Algie stammer and paw the ground like an errant schoolboy was positively embarrassing.

"What? Oh." The Beater blushed positively crimson. "Well, I know they are newfangled," she said defensively, "but I absolutely refuse to wear underrobes. You wouldn't believe the sort of positions you can get into when you're trying to prevent a Blurting and if you know anything about the Harriers then you know that's  _just_  when they're going to be flying underneath you, and then they'll leer. I thought playing the Vratsa Vultures was bad but this is positively awful."

"No, they're quite nice," Rusty said. "Um." Algernon was giving him a look of severe disapproval. "I meant it. Really I did. They must be fashionable, anyway, if Angharad's wearing them. What are they called?"

"Bloomers. Anyway, Angharad will wear anything if she thinks it's suitably daring."

"Oh, come now, that's not fair," Rusty said.

The Harpy gave him a faintly superior look. "Clearly you've never met her."

"I most certainly have met her. Chewings once tried to get her to dye her hair green, on a bet--the rest of the Quidditch team was doing it--and she tried to indecently assault hiim with a Bludger bat, which she'd taken off Stone, who's the approximate size of the Squid in the Hogwarts lake, mind you. And Stone had been resisting at the time."

"But that was her hair," the Harpy said, in insufferably patronizing tones. "She's always like that about her hair."

"Well, we know that  _now_."

"I suppose you knew her at school, then?" She sounded entirely more comfortable now, which was a relief; two stammering incomprehensible people in one conversation was at least one too many.

"Yes, you might say that."

"Might?"

"Well... you would say that. If you were, you know, saying truthful things. But we were in Slytherin, so that's not necessarily a given."

She smiled at him, and held out her hand. "I'm Enid Davies; I play Beater."

"Oh." Rusty shook her hand. "Rusty MacFusty. Dinas Emrys Dragon Reserve."

"Not the MacFusty Reserve?"

"I fancied spending my days among people with whom I only shared two great-grandparents, and both of those different people," Rusty said.

She laughed. "Pleasure to meet you."

 


	20. Girls in Green Robes and Blokes in Burnt Trousers

**CHAPTER TWENTY: GIRLS IN GREEN ROBES AND BLOKES IN BURNT TROUSERS**

 

Bronwyn Jones made a grab for the Quaffle, but one of the bloody Germans got there first.

_Darren's head. Just imagine it's Darren's head._  Stupid git. Tactics and reason and for God's sake if she'd wanted a reasonable husband she'd have married Gareth. Well, actually she wouldn't, because that would have been bigamy, and also Blodwen had been in love with him since they were fourteen, but the principle was there. Just because he and Gareth were best friends didn't mean he had to pick up Gareth's bloody mannerisms. "Whatever you like dear. Yes dear. No dear." Had the man no spine? Just last match that the Kestrels had played he'd threatened to go after the referee with an ice-pick! What had happened to the man Bronwyn had become engaged to, the man with romantic picnics and the most arousing way of explaining the Sloth Grip Roll that she had ever  _heard_?

He'd become captain, that was what had happened. Yes, of course he was bellowing "Winkler, you moron, have you taken leave of your senses?" and suggesting that the referees as a group were in dire need of re-education by Beater bats, but his  _heart_  didn't really sound in it. A more half-arsed bellow of "Cob this, you sod!" had probably never been  _heard_ from the spectator stands of a Quidditch pitch.

He was off playing games half the time, as usual, but when he came back, now, all he wanted to talk about was his own idiot teammates. "Oh, yes, O'Neill's a strong Beater, but he has difficulty swinging back-hand--" The sort of rubbish no one on earth would care about. And then when Bronwyn would talk about  _her_  day he would say things like, "So Gwen still does that--how funny. I remember fifth-year we won a game against Gryffindor because she kept doing that," or "Oh, Glynnis cobbed again? Yes, she is rather fond of cobbing--I remember sixth-year she actually bruised Murphy's  _eyeball_  mid-match, I had to take him out of the game because he was screaming like a little girl every time the mediwitch got near him to try and fix it." More unhelpful comments could not be imagined!

Gareth would not behave like this. Admittedly, this was because Gareth was henpecked, but still--some consideration would have been nice! How could she get up next spring and promise eternity with someone whom she was seriously on the verge of beating to death with his own promotional literature? "Yes, actually, I think it would be a good idea if you could come down to our practices sometime. I mean, I'm not encouraging it as Captain of the Kestrels, of course, but Gwen thinks you could use some practice when taking the left-hand flank of the Hawkshead, and actually our new Chaser is rather good at that..."

Oh! She could just kill him!

Unfortunately that would be Bumphing and then afterwards he would probably suggest, kindly, that she re-read  _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Worse yet, her idiot younger brother would be there, and he was like some sort of idiot savant when Darren was around; he would simply recite Quidditch statistics with a vacant, cow-like expression on his face. Bronwyn had suggested that their mother take him to St Mungo's to have this looked at, but Mother claimed he was only doing it for the attention.

However, the Harrier Keeper, from a certain distance, looked almost exactly like Darren. They flew differently, of course--Rudolf Brand had the slight swagger to his broomsmanship that bespoke a Durmstrang education--but they were both tall, they were both dark-haired, they were both Keepers, they both wore vaguely reddish uniforms, and they were both  _male_. Bronwyn had a bloody good right arm, if she did say so herself.

If the idiot was going to be foolish enough to try and  _stop_  the Quaffle, she was going to make sure that he paid for it.

Angharad had managed to confiscate the Quaffle from the Germans and was already lining up for the Hawkshead. Bronwyn hurriedly sped into left position; her twin sister Blodwen was already in right. A Bludger came flying at them and Blodwen rolled with it but kept her seat; out of the corner of her eye, Bronwyn could see Mari pounce on the Bludger like a cat confronted with a particularly obese and slow-moving mouse. Enid and Mari loved those Bludgers. It was always a relief to have Beaters who were affectionate about the Bludgers. It was much more reassuring than the very aggressive Beaters who seemed to prefer the hitting part--that type was so much more indiscriminate about their aim.

The Harrier Keeper had realized what they were doing, as had the Harrier Beaters. Bronwyn could hear them shouting frantically to each other in German as they realized that they had neither of the Bludgers. Mari still had her Bludger and Enid--Bronwyn risked a quick check--yes, Enid was halfway across the field batting a Bludger of her very own back and forth with a satisfied expression on her face. Well, it was  _nice_  to have Beaters who were so fond of the Bludgers, but it was also a bit  _worrisome_. It seemed so abnormal.

The Harrier Beaters split up and went in pursuit of the Bludgers--probably not the best of ideas on their part, really. There was strength in numbers. They'd have done better to gang up on one of the Harpy Beaters.

"Bronny," Blodwen screamed, "Bron, pay attention, for goodness' sake!"

Brand, the Harrier Keeper, was circling the goals, his Darren-like jaw set in a Darren-like grimace. Bronwyn wished  _she_  had a Bludger of her very own that very minute. Her distraction nearly cost them, though; the smallest of the Harrier Chasers swooped down just in front of her, in an attempt to distract them from their flying. There was a wild shriek from across the field and then howls of rage as Glynnis did something to the other two Chasers. The stands cheered. It must have been good. She'd get one of the others to fill her in on it afterwards. Or Darren. If he was even paying attention, the stupid git. He was probably working on game plans for the next Kestrels game. He'd probably stolen Gwen's chalkboard, erased all of her Harpy-related information--after copying it down for espionage purposes--and then filled it up with irrelevant plans for the Kestrels. It would be just like him!

She flattened herself against her broomstick just in time to avoid the Bludger aimed directly at her head. She could hear Enid shrieking, "Sorry!" but the rest of Enid's apology was lost to the wind as they kept moving. Angharad and her ponytail dove for the goal. The Keeper moved to stop her. Bronwyn deliberately loosened her grip on her broomstick. The ponytail had been casually flipped over Angharad's left shoulder, not her right; she was feinting.  _One--two--_

Bronwyn tightened her grip and dove downward. At the same moment Blodwen veered up and Angharad passed the Quaffle to her before feinting off to the left. Brand, helplessly, did what seemed the most sensible thing, and followed Angharad.

The cheers from the crowd told Bronwyn that her twin sister had been successful. She smiled. She might not be able to take his head off, but beating him was the next best thing.

Anyway, if she asked nicely Mari would probably take more care in aiming the Bludgers next time, and who knew, they might get a concussion out of it despite it all.

It really was the best profession in the world.

 

* * *

Back when Glynnis Griffiths was still a very small girl, she'd had an uncle--a jolly fat man of the sort who is always made to play Father Christmas despite the fact that he really isn't any good with children. Somehow the fact that children hated him on sight had escaped all adults, everywhere, and he'd managed to get along for most of his life confirmed in the erroneous impression that he was, in fact, good with children.

Glynnis had also had an aunt, a thin Victorian lady of the sort who is a confirmed spinster and lives with her bosom friend from Hogwarts in a small Welsh village, where she makes her living selling terribly trite novels about wee little witches and wizards and their terribly twee adventures. Despite her horrible name and even more horrible profession, Aunt Adamantia was the good sort of aunt, with a booming laugh and the professed conviction that anyone who would give one of her books as a present to a child ought to be fed to a manticore.

It had been Glynnis' birthday. She had been, oh, five or six. Aunt Adamantia had given her, as a present, her very first broomstick. Glynnis' mother, at the time still very young and timid (several years of Glynnis had toughened her up to the point where she'd greeted the arrival of her daughter Susan into the world with, "Well, I suppose it's good to have someone else we can sell to the salt mines in case of the family's financial reversal"), had laughed nervously and said, "Oh, Aunt Addie, do you really think that's such a good idea? She might fall and, I don't know, break something."

"Good. If she's such a dunce that she can't stay on a broomstick, then she's not worth the cost of the food it will take to raise her," Aunt Addie said coolly.

It was several days later, when Glynnis was industriously playing with her broomstick (it was a Wee Witch Suzy Sparkler 3000 and wouldn't go more than a few centimeters off the ground, so that her toes skimmed the top of the grass as she buzzed busily around the yard), that Uncle Silvestrius showed up, with his hearty laugh, a box of inferior chocolates for Mam, and a wrapped package for Glynnis which proved, when opened, to contain  _Marvolo and Melusine Find A Bowtruckle_ , by A. L. Aberystwyth-DeClare. "The author is, er, a relative, you know," Mam said, with a nervous laugh. She didn't mention the part about manticores.

"Well, all the better, then! It's a marvellous book for children!" Uncle Silvestrius hunkered down on his heels, directly in the path of Glynnis' broomstick, and smiled at her. "Don't you like that lovely book, Glynnis?"

"Auntie Addie says it's tripe. Auntie Addie says only a mental deficient would try to force a child to read one of those books."

" _Really_ , Glynnis!"

"Now, now, the girl's just outspoken." Uncle Silvestrius straightened up and frowned down at Glynnis. She moved out of his way and zipped further down the yard towards the mooncalf holes. A gnome was crawling out of one, lugging what looked like a dead spider in its wake. Glynnis kicked it in the head as she went by and began to hum a little song to herself.

As she came back up towards where the adults stood talking, Uncle Silvestrius' voice carried to her. "... seems rather dangerous, you have to admit... perhaps you should take it away. Give it back when she's old enough to fly responsibly..."

Glynnis' eyes narrowed. Clenching her stubby fingers more tightly around the broomstick's handle, she flew directly into the back of Uncle Silvestrius' knees.

The howl he emitted as he fell to the ground was decidedly satisfactory, and all Glynnis' mother did was close her eyes and moan, "Oh,  _Glynnis_..." It had been the start of a long and fruitful career.

Thoughtfully, Glynnis aimed her broomstick at one of the Beaters and flew straight at his head.

He was intent on chasing Mari around the field for some reason--almost obsessive, really; certainly not the sort of thing one ought to encourage--and Mari was busily whacking the Bludger back and forth with her Beater bat as she fled from the Harrier. It looked like some sort of perverse and sadistic Quidditch practice technique. If Glynnis were a Beater, she'd have been hoping that Gwen wasn't taking notes on that batting process, but since she was the Seeker, it would probably be rather funny to watch the two Beaters zooming across the field in tandem every morning, lying low on their broomsticks, each bashing a Bludger back and forth to herself. Who knew, she might even pick up some new obscenities. Perhaps she should suggest it. On the other hand, they might lynch her.

Mari's antics aside, the Harrier wasn't paying any attention at all, and so it was that Glynnis' attack caught him entirely off-guard. He hurled his weight to the left to avoid getting smashed in the head by the tip of her Cleansweep, but unfortunately neglected to tighten his grasp on his broomstick. His arms flew off the handle and he ended up upside down, legs clinging tightly to his broomstick. He was wearing only a dingy set of shorts underneath his underrobes. Glynnis cackled. Mari laughed out loud and gave her Bludger a good hard thwack, sending it back towards a knot of players further down the field.

Arms flailing wildly, muscles in hairy legs tensing (was he the one who was related to the werewolf? Glynnis couldn't tell them apart any longer, except for the bastard Bastnagel), the Harrier finally managed to right himself. The crowd cheered its impartial approval; Glynnis half-fancied she could hear her younger sister and her sister's friends screaming themselves hoarse up in the stands. The little bastard Bastnagel was tittering from about three meters away. Glynnis glared up at him. "Mari, love, send a Bludger his way next chance you get, right?"

"Right," Mari said. "Though of course if you found the Snitch it'd all be over--we're up forty points."

"Snitches don't care about anyone's schedule," Glynnis said tersely, and hastily abandoned the scene of her most recent triumph. It was true, that was the damn problem. It was all down to the Seekers at this point, and she was letting the rest of them down.

Well, she'd win in the end. She would. She had to, dammit. Losing to Bastnagel--currently twirling his broomstick in vertical spirals, coincidentally within her field of vision--was _not an option_. She'd  _never_  live it down. She'd have to become a hermit in the Hebrides or something. She ducked a Bludger. "Goddammit, Enid," she bellowed, "if you can't look after the Bludgers get off the pitch!"

Enid Davies, pelting up the field in fast pursuit of the Bludger, gave Glynnis the sort of look that could be used to dispell cauldron fumes and clean the dried blood off the wall of the dungeon to boot. Glynnis flew a loop-de-loop to settle her thoughts. She wasn't doing anyone good getting all waspish like this; maintaining a sweet, even temper was the key to a good Quidditch match. She always maintained her sweet even temper. It wasn't her fault if all of her opponents went mysteriously mad and foul-mouthed halfway through the game. If they didn't expect their drawers to be salted with Itching Powder before the match, why had they gone into Quidditch, anyway? Of course she hadn't done that one since Hogwarts. It was so  _banal_. The Snitch--the Snitch--where was the Snitch? Bastnagel was hovering near the stands, but his posture suggested that he was bluffing. Probably wanted her to run off in fast pursuit--probably waiting so he could gloat over it--she wasn't going to fall for his Boche trickery, dammit!

She soared to a higher altitude and surveyed the field. Enid was still chasing after her Bludger with the thin-lipped look that meant she'd taken what Glynnis had said to heart and was going to be sulking for  _hours_  afterwards, good grief; Mari was involved in some sort of stand-off with the blond Harrier Beater, both of them intent on the same Bludger and equally intent on keeping the other away from it. The Chasers were all six jumbled up over by the Harpies' goal; Gwendolyn was frantically fidgeting, the broom jerking slightly with her every movement (that was the problem with the Cleansweep Five: sensitive handling occasionally meant over-sensitive handling), unwilling to leave the goalposts to scream at her players more effectively, but clearly desperate to tell them just what they were doing wrong.

Glynnis heard an obscenity and looked over just in time to see Enid jerk her broom away from the brunet Harrier Beater, who was on a semi-collision course. Enid swore again, more loudly, almost sobbing with fury and humiliation. It must have been a very near miss, and everyone's nerves were frazzled what with playing so long; after you'd been on the field for so long, nearly being knocked off your broom by a hulking German moving at incredible speed could be traumatic and occasionally tear-inducing. Enid, good girl, recovered quickly, and grasping her broomstick tightly with both hands she corrected her trajectory and went in pursuit of the German, who hadn't actually gone very far. He looked over his shoulder, saw Enid coming at him like an avenging Fury who had just spotted the god of war skipping places in the lunch queue, and hastily hit the Bludger as far away from them as he could. The Germans had muscle power, you had to give them that. Glynnis watched the Bludger spiral away into the distance, towards the Harpy goals and the Chasers. One of the Germans had the Quaffle and the Harpies were blocking him by the simple expedient of surrounding him and yelling at him, it looked like; for some reason he wasn't moving. Perhaps he had mother issues, or several dozen aggressive older sisters. The mental picture was enchanting; Glynnis smiled dreamily. The smile was unfortunately intercepted by Bastnagel, who beamed back and winked. Glynnis glared.

It was the other two German Chasers, hovering above and below the Quaffle-holder, who spotted the Bludger and shouted a warning; but with all the shouting going on, no one heard it.

The Bludger hit a Harpy, Glynnis couldn't tell who, in her robes right above her hip. She had one arm raised to gesticulate at her hapless Harrier victim, and she just had time to turn her head slightly, as though looking for her attacker, before her grip loosened on the broom handle and she fell, almost gracefully, from her broomstick to the ground below.

 

* * *

Goodness, she thought. The grass certainly was harder than it looked. Her head hurt. Around her she could hear voices. "Where's Price? For God's sake someone get the damn mediwizard!"

"I don't know where he is," a man's voice said. "He's gone. I've sent one of my subordinates to fetch someone else--"

"Well for God's sake how long will that take?" a woman snapped. "My reserves are going to be busy playing after dark, I can't put them in now! Do you know anything about medimagic?"

"We have some experience with it," said another male voice matter-of-factly.

"Oh thank God," said yet another woman. Really there were an awful lot of people here. She wished some of them would go away. Or perhaps all of them. Was she perhaps someone famous? She brightened enormously. This meant controlled and possibly illegal potions, and lots of them!

How did she know that, she wondered. Hmmmm. "What's my name?" she said out loud.

There was a pause. Then the second woman said, "Er, Bronwyn, that's my question."

"Who's Bronwyn?"

"Er... You're Bronwyn."

"And who are you, then?"

"I'm Enid. Davies. Your teammate?"

"Team? What team?" she said indignantly. Bronwyn seemed a serviceable enough name, but she didn't like this team business. It was clear that Bronwyn had to be someone important, which meant that she didn't need to have any bother with things like "teams"!

"Er... our team? Oh, dear. Mr. Longbottom--"

"Under the circumstances, Miss Davies, you might call me Algernon," the second man said. "Dorny, I need some Pepper-Up Potion! And tell Rusty to bring some hot water!"

"What's wrong with her?" the first woman snapped.

Bronwyn opened her eyes. A face came into focus. It was upside-down.

"I think she's lost her memory," said the face, which, judging from the voice, apparently belonged to this Enid person.

"What?" The other woman sounded scandalized.

_Well, we'll see if I mention_  you  _in my next interview_ , Bronwyn thought. Or... autobiography, even? She contemplated the writing of a book, and decided that her metier was something else, such as singing. Or cooking. She was probably world-renowned for her souffle. Catch this other annoying woman baking anything beyond burnt toast.

Or perhaps it was Bronwyn who couldn't cook anything besides burnt toast. Good grief, this was confusing.

"It looks like some bones are broken as well," Mr. Algernon Longbottom said.

The Enid person waved a hand in front of Bronwyn's face. "Bronwyn, are you all right?" she said. "Where does it hurt?"

Bronwyn batted angrily at Enid's hands. "Stop that," she snapped. "I am not a horse."

Enid looked up and at something down by Bronwyn's feet. "Oh, dear," she said. She looked back at Bronwyn. "No, Bronwyn, you're not a horse. Erm... Blodwen will be here in a minute, I think Gareth's trying to calm her down first..."

"Yes, I can hear the screaming from here," Mr. Algernon Longbottom said. "I think it's the tibia."

"Can you move your tibia, Bronwyn?" the first woman said urgently. "Bronwyn, try to move your tibia. It's very important that you move your tibia!"

"Who is Blodwen?" Bronwyn said. "Is that my secretary?"

The Enid person gave her another anxious look and patted her gently on the forehead. Bronwyn was forced to suffer this in silence because someone, possibly Mr. Algernon Longbottom, was doing something painful to her leg. Or possibly her tibia, whatever the hell that was.

"Ah, thank you, Parker," Mr. Algernon Longbottom said. "No sign of the mediwizard?"

"No," said someone else. "Dorny went out after him and I, uh, thought I would help--gosh, she doesn't look too good, does she? Kind of grey and dead-looking. Hey, is that bone?"

"Go away, Parker," said Mr. Algernon Longbottom firmly.

This was an effective sort of thing to say, Bronwyn thought. She would have to hire him away from his current employer. He could keep the baying media hounds away.

She looked suspiciously up at the Enid woman. One never knew whom the baying media hounds would be next.

"You're not a reporter, are you?" she said. "This whole Ôteam' business sounds awfully suspicious to me."

Enid went pale, and looked up past Bronwyn's legs again. It was really very rude of her to keep looking at things Bronwyn couldn't see. Bronwyn would have turned her neck to look but somehow her head hurt.

"I'm sure it's temporary," Enid said. "As soon as the mediwizard comes, he'll--"

"I'm short a Chaser," the first woman whispered. She sounded distraught. Her voice got louder. "My God, I'm short a Chaser and you keep talking about--"

"Now, Gwen, we weathered Glynnis', erm, accident, and we'll do fine here, I'm sure Bronwyn will be fine."

"I would like Blodwen," Bronwyn said precisely.

"Oh, thank God," Enid said immediately. "Of course you do. Gwen, maybe you could get her? I don't want to move Bronwyn's head."

"I need my secretary to make sense of all of this, you people are annoying me," Bronwyn said, giving way to peevishness. Her leg really did hurt. Whatever Mr. Algernon Longbottom was doing to it was not helping one bit and she would have screamed if it wouldn't have ended up splashed all over the headlines.

"Er... perhaps you  _shouldn't_  get Blodwen, Gwen. Bronwyn... Blodwen's not your your secretary. She's your sister." There was a pause. Then Enid added, sounding as though she hoped this would provide an added incentive, "You're twins!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Bronwyn said indignantly. "I haven't got a sister."

"That might distress Mrs. Williams," Mr. Algernon Longbottom said.

"Yes, yes," Enid said. "Of course you're right. Gwen, maybe you could--keep Blodwen away? Oh, Gwen, don't--Look, don't, it's really not worth crying over--Oh, Gwen, she'll be fine in a few hours, I'm sure. Look, Blodwen's going to break free of Gareth any minute and then we'll have two screaming Chasers instead of one. I'll bellow if anything happens."

"Not loudly," Bronwyn said. "I have very sensitive ears."

"Of course you do," Enid soothed. The woman was too condescending for words. She was clearly a plant from the newspapers.

"If you take photographs of me with your hidden camera, I will sue you for every Sickle you've got," Bronwyn warned.

Enid patted her head again. "Of course you will, of course," she said soothingly.

"I am not a child. Don't speak to me like I am a child!"

There was a brief disturbance over by her side. Casting her eyes downward, she could just see a shadowy figure coming to kneel by her side. It bent and picked up her hand, lifting it to its lips.

The most melodious voice she had ever heard crooned, "Your mother? Pah. I spit on your mother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is all she wrote, I'm afraid. There hasn't been an update to the angstybludgers yahoo group- which you can still join if you have a yahoo account-since Chapter 20, nearly 7 years ago.  
> I tried emailing but received an automatic response that the address was no longer active.  
> But if you made it this far, I hope you agree that even unfinished, this story is still worth the read.  
> The next chapter isn't a chapter, but the cast of characters list. For reference (and giggles).


	21. Cast of Characters (for reference, not a real chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A list of the many characters in Love on the Quidditch Pitch, with notes on their relationships and general character flaws.

### Our cast of characters   
(in order of appearance, more or less)

**Idris Baulch** : The crazed Welsh announcer who can't make up his mind who he hates most: the other team, the horrible mouthy players he announces for, or the woman that's sharing the announcer's box with him. So far, she's winning.

**Adelheid von Roethlisberger:** The other announcer.  _She_  has no difficulty making up  _her_  mind.

**Gwendolyn Morgan:** The Harpies' captain and Keeper, not at all distressed by the prospect of a lengthy game, although she doesn't understand why everyone else is beginning to get grumpy.

**Bronwyn Jones:** Chaser, twin sister of Blodwen Williams, and fiancee of the absent Darren O'Hare. She'll bicker with anything except possibly her sister, which bodes ill for her future marriage.

**Blodwen Williams:** What's wrong with breastfeeding your baby during breaks? Chaser and proud mother of Tommy (11 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days).

**Tommy Williams:** As far as anyone besides his doting mother can tell, he has two moods: asleep and crying. No one is sure whether he minds being looked after by his father, despite such terrible side effects such as being wrapped in the blue clowns blanket  _before_  the yellow Kneazles. His mother is convinced he will never recover.

**Gareth Williams:** Ordinarily a Chaser for the Caerphilly Catapults, at the moment his main job is looking after his infant offspring according to his wife's exacting standards. He would much rather be facing down someone with a Quaffle under his arm, but we can't all have everything we want.

**Mari Lello** : With six younger brothers, what could she play but Beater?

**Enid Davies:** The other Beater, a former Ravenclaw with an odd sense of humor and attacks of overwhelming shyness. She forms personal relationships with her Bludgers. It's best not to inquire much further.

**Angharad Rees:** The third Chaser, the only one who was never surnamed Jones. The current theory among her teammates is that she'll flirt with anything bipedal, mammalian, and in possession of a Y-chromosome, although they've never tested this on anything but humans.

**Glynnis Griffiths:** The Harpies' charming Seeker, Gwendolyn's old schoolmate and friend, possessed of a crazy sense of humor, a younger sister named Susan, and a date on Tuesday which she hopes not to miss.

**Rudolf Brand:** Hapless captain of the Heidelberg Harriers. His Seeker is crazy, one of his Chasers is overly fond of theoretical physics, and the rest of his team hates each other, not to mention that the opposing team is composed entirely of bonkers feminists. He's having a bad day. He's having several in a row.

**Gottschalk Einbund and Hartwig Falck:** The Harrier Beaters. One of them is blond, one of them is brunet; one of them is married, while the other one will flirt with anything female (bipedal not necessary). They both look like giant rock-shaped slabs of meat.

**Reinhard Kriebl, Karl Klopsch, and Dietrich Diffenderffer:** Diffenderffer is a small little man who used to study physics in Berlin. The other two are mostly interchangeable.

**Alberich Bastnagel:** The Harriers' crazed Seeker, whose preferred mode of play is to fall in love with and then stalk his opposite number. As far as Glynnis Griffiths is concerned, his death and/or maiming cannot come too quickly.

**Lionel Winkler:** The hapless red-faced referee. All he wanted was a nice quiet game with everyone obeying the rules. Instead, he got this one. It would be very unwise to ask him who Priscilla is, and that's all we have to say about  _that_.

**Gwyneth Morgan, Susan Griffiths, Emily Fawcett, Jen Weasley, and Catriona McCormack:** Every single thirteen-year-old girl currently enrolled in Gryffindor House, thank you very much.

**Darren O'Hare:** Keeper for the Kenmare Kestrels, Bronwyn's fiance. She's managing to quarrel with him even though he's not here. Boy, is he in for a surprise when he shows up!

**Bledri Jones:** Bronwyn and Blodwen's younger brother. Up in the stands, running wild with Mari Lello's brothers in between fits of boredom and drawing pictures of dragons and wondering when they're going to get on with it and find the bloody Snitch already.

**The Lello boys** : Ranging in age from seventeen to six, they are the terrors of Gryffindor House during the school year (except for Madog and Owen, who are too young). At the moment, without any Slytherins to torment, they are settling for the third-year Gryffindor girls. If the restrictions on the underage use of magic outside of school had not been developed, the Quidditch stands would currently resemble a war zone. In the Balkans.

**Modron Lello** : She's raised seven children, for God's sake. Please, just leave her alone.

**Mrs. Hartwig (Hati) Falck:** The hairiest woman the third-year Gryffindors have ever seen.

**Katarina Orlova:** Seeker for the Vratsa Vultures. Bastnagel's impassioned pursuit of her left him in possession of a black eye. He was only lucky it wasn't worse.

**Solveig Henriksen:** The Seeker for the Karasjok Kites is not one to bother with black eyes. She skipped straight to mid-match Transfiguration into a member of the mallard family. Alberich kept the tendency to quack and run around naked in the rain for some months afterwards.

**Morpheus Price:** Every Quidditch match needs a mediwizard. If he has a spiffy name like "Morpheus," so much the better.

**Llevelys:** A dragon has escaped from the Dinas Emrys Reserve and they're going to try and lure it to the Quidditch pitch where it can be captured and taken home. He gets to bring them the news. Lucky him. He can get food poisoning from anything, up to and including dry toast.

**Uncle Hippo:** Gwen's great-uncle, Hippolytus Morgan, who, owing to an unfortunate oversight, is the sole adult supervisor of the third-year Gryffindor girls. He is determined to protect them from menaces such as unlicensed Augureys and Grindelwald bombing the pitch.

**Owen Lello:**  Looks like a Niffler. We just thought you should know.

**Cybele Weasley:** Jen's mother, with children in tow, arrives to watch the remainder of the game and her daughter and friends. As you can imagine, they're just thrilled. She loves Muggles. She really loves Muggles. She has a stack of reading about Muggles that the Ministry would kill to keep out of her hands.

**Arthur Weasley:** Faced with reading books about Muggles or listening to his mother's half-baked theories about child-raising, he picks books. The world can only guess at what the consequences will be.

**Elaine Weasley:** The youngest Weasley child, she eats worms. She claims to enjoy it. Most people are content to take these statements at face value. It's certainly better than the alternative.

**Algernon Longbottom:** Head dragon keeper sent down from the Reserve to set up the dragon-catching equipment. He isn't really sure what to make of the game, although Miss Davies is really quite attractive. He has with him a merry band of dragon keepers, including:

**Llevelys:** Already mentioned, he's not interesting enough to warrant a second entry.

**Jack Dorny:** Cheats at cards.

**Mitchell:** Possesses a strong and entirely inexplicable attraction for women. Has a number of girlfriends whom he organizes by days of the week.

**Parker:** Could be tactfully described as "unique," or bluntly as "a spotty-faced dragon-obsessed git with no social skills." He has a thing for blondes. No one wants to find out what it is.

**Rusty MacFusty** : Recently returned from France, not yet arrived at the game, he possesses an alcohol capacity in excess of that of most small countries.

**Laszlo Siraly** : The Hairy Hungarian. Some tension has been caused between him and his fellows due to the fact that, when he first arrived at the reserve, his English consisted of three phrases: "I am hungry," "I need haircut," and "Your mother? Pah! I spit on your mother."

And last but certainly not least, the **Runic Resonance Dragon Attraction Device** , otherwise known as the Thing. No one is really sure what it does, but it cost a hell of a lot of money, so  _by God they're going to use it_! If they can find all the pieces, that is.

**Radolphus P. Andrews:** Attending the game with his daughter and small grandsons, faced with the prospect of entertaining said children, all this hapless widower can think to do is imitate Augurey calls. He breeds them, you know. They have won several awards. He is particularly proud of--Oh. You're not listening. Current location: the family tent, which smells like cabbages.


End file.
